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INTRODUCTION AND NOTES By 

BERNARD KNOX 




— * 



V 







ADVANCE PRAISE FOR THE ODYSSEY 



"The other shoe h 



oe nas aropp 



ed, and now we have the superb Fagles/Knox 




If, as Robert Fagles remarks in his Postscript, Homers work is 'a musical event,' it 

— Anthony Hecht 



is Beethoven's Ninth ." 



"Readers make their own odyssey, by now, through Odysseys. This latest lap of the 
journey returns us quite spectrally to the poetry of the affair: 'So they traded sto- 
ries, the two ghosts standing there in the House of Death . . .' Poetry for which, 
yet again, we aspirants to Homeric harness are in Robert Fagles' debt, and happy 



to be there . 



Richard Howar 



d 



"Wonderfully readable. He's grasped the dramatic urgencies of the narrative inan 
unusual way — and let those determine his language, which is therefore willy-nilly 
swift, transparent, and wide-eyed to the approaching events and perspectives. Just ' 
the right blend of sophistication and roughness it seems to me." 

— Ted Hughes 



"Robert Fagles' Odyssey is a splendid companion piece to his memorable English 
version of the Iliad. He has managed to create a poetic style that combines the 
pungency of modern colloquial English with a timeless dignity. The sensory val- 
ues of Odysseus' archaic world — the snap of sails, the scud of seafoam, the gleam 
of burnished bronze — come wonderfully alive in this supple, rhythmic English." 

— Robert Alter/ 

- 

University of California at Berkeley 



It is not every day that a batter manages a Homer on each of his first two 
tries at the plate. But now with his Odyssey, as earlier with his Iliad, transla- 
tor Robert Fagles has done just this. There is also a triumphant Introduction 

— Maynard Mack, 



by Bernard Knox." 



Yale University 



ISBN 0-670-82162-4 



9 



780670 



821624 



90000> 



LLJ 



A 




US. $35.00 

Canada $45.00 






"To re-create a world where everything is living, 
down to the chairs and table-linens, is very nearly 
as difficult as to create it. Fagles does tins with tri- 
umphant assurance; every arrowhead flashes 
lightning, every bush burns; Homer is with us." 

James Dickey 




hen Robert Fagles' translation of the Iliad was 
published in 1990, critics and scholars alike hailed 
it as a masterpiece. 

Now Robert Fagles presents us with the Odyssey, 
Homers best-loved and most accessible poem, 
recounting the arduous wanderings of Odysseus dur- 
ing his ten-year voyage home to Ithaca, after the Tro- 
jan War. If the Iliad is the world s greatest war story, 
then the Odyssey is literatures grandest evocation of 
everymans journey through life. Odysseus' reliance on 
his wit and wiliness for survival in his encounters with 
divine and natural forces is at once the human story 
and an individual test of moral endurance. In the 
myths and legends that are magnificently retold here, 
Fagles has captured the energy and poetry of 
Homers original in a bold, contemporary idiom and 
given us an Odyssey to read aloud, to savor, and to 
treasure for its sheer lyrical mastery. 

Renowned classicist Bernard Knox's superb 
Introduction and textual commentary provide new 
insights and background information for the general 
reader and scholar, intensifying the strength of Fagles 
translation. This is an Odyssey to delight both the clas- 
sicist and the public at large, and to captivate a new 
feneration of Homer's students. 



Unabridged Recording by Ian McKellen 
Available from Penguin Audiobooks 

book-of-the-month club main selection 



ROBERT PaGLES is Arthur W. Marks T9 Professor of 
Comparative Literature at Princeton University. He 
is the recipient of a 1996 Academy Award in Liter- 
ature from the American Academy of Arts and Let- 
ters. His translations of Sophocles' Three Theban Plays, 
Aeschylus' Oresteia (nominated for a National Book 
Award) and Homer's Iliad (winner of the 1 99 1 
Harold Morton Landon Translation Award by The 
Academy of American Poets, an award from the 
Translation Center of Columbia University, and 
the New Jersey Humanities Book Award) are pub- 
lished in Penguin Classics. His original poetry, as 
well as his translations, have appeared in many journals 
and reviews, and a book of his poems, I, Vincent: Poems 
from the Pictures of Van Cogh } was published in 1978. 



BERNARD KNOX is Director Emeritus of Harvard's 
Center for Hellenic Studies in Washington, D.C. His 



d 



h 



d i 



>ub- 



essays ana reviews nave appeared in numerous p 
lications and in 1978 he won the George Jean Nathan 
Award for Dramatic Criticism. His works include 
Oedipus at Thebes: Sophocles* Tragic Hero and His Time; The 
Heroic Temper: Studies in Sophoclean Tragedy; Word and Action: 
Essays on the Ancient Theatre; Essays Ancient and Modern 
(awarded the 1989 PEN/Spielvogel-Diamonstein 
Award); The Oldest Dead White European Males and Other 
Reflections on the Classics; Backing into the Future: The Clas- 
sical Tradition and its Renewal Mr. Knox is the editor of 
The Norton Book of Classical Literature. 



Jacket art: Black figure kylix, Heracles struggling with the sea-god Triton, 
ringed by dancing sea-nymphs, ca. 550 Ba ., in the Museo 

Nazionale Archeologico, Tar^uinia. Italy 
(photograph: Nimatallah/Art Resource, New York) 



mm 




A division of Penguin USA 

375 Hudson Street, New York, N.Y. 10014 



£25.00 



VIKING Printed in U.S.A. 



HOMER: 
THE ODYSSEY 



Other Books by Robert Fagles 

I Vincent: Poems from the Pictures of Van Gogh 

Homer: A Collection of Critical Essays 
(Co-ed. with George Steiner, and contributor) 

The Twickenham Edition of Pope 's Iliad and Odyssey 
(Assoc. Ed. among others with Maynard Mack) 

TRANSLATIONS 

Bacchylides: Complete Poems 
(with Adam Parry) 

Aeschylus: The Oresteia 
(with W. B. Stanford) 

Sophocles: The Three Theban Plays 
(with Bernard Knox) 

Homer: The Iliad 
(with Bernard Knox) 

Other Books by Bernard Knox 

Oedipus at Thebes: Sophocles ' Tragic Hero and His Time 

The Heroic Temper: Studies in Sophoclean Tragedy 

Word and Action: Essays on the Ancient Theater 

Essays Ancient and Modern 

Sophocles, Oedipus the King (Trans.) 

Backing Into the Future: The Classical Tradition and Its Renewal 

The Oldest Dead White European Males and Other Reflections on the Classics 

The Norton Book of Classical Literature (Ed.) 



VIKING 




HOMER 



The 



Odyssey 



TRANSLATED BY 

Robert Fagles 



INTRODUCTION AND 
NOTES BY 

BERNARD KNOX 



VIKING 

Published by the Penguin Group 

Penguin Books USA Inc., 375 Hudson Street, 

New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. 

Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, 

London W8 5TZ, England 

Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, 

Victoria, Australia 

Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, 

Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 

Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, 

Auckland 1 0, New Zealand p or Ly nne 

Penguin Books Ltd^ Registered Offices: 

Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England <? 

First published in 1996 by Viking Penguin, 
a division of Penguin Books USA Inc. 

10 987654321 

Copyright © Robert Fagles, 1996 

Introduction and notes copyright © Bernard Knox, 1996 

All rights reserved 

Maps copyright © Anita Karl and James Kemp, 1990 

CAUTION: This translation in its printed form is designed for the reading 
public only. All dramatic rights in it are fully protected by copyright, and no 
public or private performances— professional or amateur— and no public 
readings for profit may be given without the written permission of the author 
and payment of a royalty. Anyone disregarding the author's rights renders 
himself liable to prosecution. Communications should be addressed to Mr. 
Fagles' representative, Georges Borchardt, Inc., 136 East 57th Street, New 
York, New York 10022. 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA 

Homer. 

[Odyssey. English] 

The Odyssey / Homer ; translated by Robert Fagles ; introduction and notes 

by Bernard Knox. 

p. cm. 

Includes bibliographical references. 

isbn 0-670-82162-4 (alk. paper) 

1. Epic poetry, Greek— Translations into English. 2. Odysseus (Greek 
Mythology)— Poetry. I. Fagles, Robert. II. Title. 
PA4025.A5F34 1996 
883'.01-dc20 96-17280 

This book is printed on acid-free paper. © 
Printed in the United States of America 

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this 
publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, 
or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photo- 
copying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both 
the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. 



CONTENTS 



INTRODUCTION 

Introduction 3 

The Spelling and Pronunciation of Homeric Names 65 

MAPS 

1. Homeric Geography: Mainland Greece 68 

2. Homeric Geography: The Peloponnese 70 

3. Homeric Geography: The Aegean and Asia Minor 72 

Inset: Troy and Vicinity 73 

homer: The Odyssey 

book 1: Athena Inspires the Prince 77 

book 2: Telemachus Sets Sail 93 

book 3: King Nestor Remembers 107 

book 4: The King and Queen of Sparta 124 

book 5: Odysseus — Nymph and Shipwreck 152 

book 6: The Princess and the Stranger 168 

book 7: Phaeacia's Halls and Gardens 179 

book 8: A Day for Songs and Contests 191 

book 9: In the One-Eyed Giant's Cave 211 

book 10: The Bewitching Queen of Aeaea 230 

book 1 1 : The Kingdom of the Dead 249 

book 12: The Cattle of the Sun 271 

book 13: Ithaca at Last 286 



CONTENTS 



book 14: The Loyal Swineherd 

book 1 5: The Prince Sets Sail for Home 

book 16: Father and Son 

book 17: Stranger at the Gates 

book 18: The Beggar-King of Ithaca 

book 19: Penelope and Her Guest 

book 20: Portents Gather 

book 2 1 : Odysseus Strings His Bow 

book 22: Slaughter in the Hall 

book 23: The Great Rooted Bed 

book 24: Peace 



301 
319 
338 
354 
375 
390 
410 
424 
439 
455 
468 



INTRODUCTION 



NOTES 

Translator's Postscript 

Genealogies 

Textual Variants from the Oxford Classical Text 

Notes on the Translation 

Suggestions for Further Reading 

Pronouncing Glossary 



489 
497 
501 
503 
517 
521 



INTRODUCTION 



THE ODYSSEY 

Odyssey" is a familiar English word, meaning, according to Webster, 
"a series of adventurous journeys usually marked by many changes of 
fortune." The Greek word Odusseia, the form from which the English 
word is derived, means simply "the story of Odysseus," a Greek hero of 
the Trojan War who took ten years to find his way back from Troy to his 
home on the island of Ithaca, off the western coast of mainland Greece. 
Homer's Odyssey does indeed present us with "adventurous journeys" 
and "changes of fortune," but it is also an epic tale of a hero's return, to 
find at home a situation more dangerous than anything he faced on the 
plains of Troy or in his wanderings over uncharted seas. 

The Greek philosopher Aristotle, writing in the fourth century B.C., 
gives us, in his treatise known as the Poetics, what he considers the 
essence of the plot. "A certain man has been abroad many years; he is 
alone, and the god Poseidon keeps a hostile eye on him. At home the 
situation is that suitors for his wife's hand are draining his resources and 
plotting to kill his son. Then, after suffering storm and shipwreck, he 
comes home, makes himself known, attacks the suitors: he survives and 
they are destroyed." This terse summary is the armature of an epic poem 
that consists of 12,109 lines of hexameter verse composed, probably, late 
in the eighth century b.c or early in the seventh, by a poet known to 
later ages as Homer, for whose life and activities no trustworthy informa- 
tion has come down to us. The poem, in other words, is some 2,700 years 
old. How, the reader may well ask, did it survive through such an 
expanse of time? By whom, for whom, and how and in what circum- 
stances was it composed? Perhaps the best way to proceed to an explo- 
ration of these questions (no one can promise a complete and certain 
answer) is backward — from the text of this book. 

It is a translation, by Robert Fagles, of the Greek text edited by David 
Monro and Thomas Allen, first published in 1908 by the Oxford Univer- 
sity Press. This two-volume edition is printed in a Greek type, complete 
with lower- and uppercase letters, breathings and accents, that is based 
on the elegant handwriting of Richard Porson, an early-nineteenth- 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



century scholar of great brilliance, who was also an incurable alcoholic as 
well as a caustic wit. This was of course not the first font of Greek type; in 
fact, the first printed edition of Homer, issued in Florence in 1488, was 
composed in type that imitated contemporary Greek handwriting, with 
all its complicated ligatures and abbreviations. Early printers tried to 
make their books look like handwritten manuscripts because in scholarly 
circles printed books were regarded as vulgar and inferior products — 
cheap paperbacks, so to speak. 

Back to 1488, then, there is a continuous history of the printed text of 
Homer, differing a little from one editor to another but essentially fixed. 
Before that, Homer existed only as a handwritten book. Such hand- 
written copies had been in circulation in Italy for a hundred years or so 
before the first printed edition. Petrarch had tried to learn Greek but gave 
up; Boccaccio succeeded and also, in 1360, had a chair of Greek founded 
in Florence. But before Petrarch, Dante, though he put Homer in his 
limbo of non- Christian poets, had never read him, and could not have 
read him even if he had seen a text. For the best part of a thousand years, 
since the end of the Roman Empire, the knowledge of Greek had been 
almost lost in Western Europe. In the fourteenth century it was reintro- 
duced into Italy from Byzantium, where a Greek-speaking Christian 
empire had maintained itself ever since Constantine made the city the 
capital of the eastern half of the Roman Empire. 

The knowledge of Greek and the manuscripts of the Greek classics, 
Homer included, came to Italy just in time; in May 1453 Byzantium fell 
to the Ottoman Turks, and the Greek empire of the East came to the end 
of its thousand-year career. During its long life it had carefully preserved, 
copied and recopied a select number of the Greek masterpieces of pre- 
Christian times, Homer prominent among them. The immediate prede- 
cessors of the printed edition of Florence were bound manuscript books 
written on vellum or on paper in a cursive minuscule script complete 
with accents and breathings. These books were the final phase of the 
process of copying by hand that went all the way back to the ancient 
world. The new minuscule handwriting had been adopted in the ninth 
century; since it separated words, it was easier to read than its prede- 
cessor, a hand consisting of freestanding capital letters without word 
division — the standard writing of the ancient world. In the second to fifth 
centuries a.d., the form and material of the books had changed: parch- 
ment, with its longer life, had replaced papyrus, and the codex form, our 
book form— folded quires of paper sewn at the back— had replaced the 
roll. In the ancient world, the Iliad consisted of a number of papyrus 
rolls, the text written in columns on the inside surface. The rolls could 



INTRODUCTION 



not be too big (or they would break when opened for reading); a long 
poem like the Odyssey might require as many as twenty-four — in fact, it is 
possible that the so-called books of our text represent an original division 
into papyrus rolls. 

In this form the poem was known to the scholars who edited and 
wrote commentaries on it in Alexandria, the city founded by Alexander 
before he set out on his epic march to India in the late fourth century b.c. 
And it was in this form — though, before the Alexandrian scholars made a 
standard edition, with many variations from one text to another — that 
copies were to be found all over the Greek world of the fourth and fifth 
centuries b.c. There must have been texts in circulation in the sixth cen- 
tury too, for we hear of official recitations at Athens and find echoes of 
Homer in sixth-century poets. By the seventh century b.c, we are 
moving back into the dark. In the poets of this century (whose work sur- 
vives only in fragments) there are epithets, phrases and even half -lines 
that are also common in Homer. Though these poets — Tyrtaeus, Callinus, 
Alcman and Archilochus — may be using tags common to a general epic 
tradition, it seems more likely that these echoes betray acquaintance 
with the work we know as Homer's. There is also a vase, discovered on 
the island of Ischia, off the coast of Naples, and dated to before 700 b.c, 
which has an inscription that seems to refer to the famous cup of Nestor 
described in the Iliad (11.745-53).* And echoes in art are also found in 
the early seventh century — illustrations of scenes from the Odyssey, for 
example, on vases dated in the 670s. 

But back beyond about 700 b.c we cannot go. Evidence for this pe- 
riod is rare; in fact, we know very little about Greece in the eighth cen- 
tury, still less, if possible, about Greece in the ninth. We have only the 
archaeological record — geometric pots, graves, some weapons. It is the 
era of Greek history known, because of our almost total ignorance about 
it, as the Dark Age. 

All we have is the tradition, what the Greeks of historical times 
believed they knew about Homer. Herodotus thought that he lived four 
hundred years, not more, before his own time; that would put him in the 
ninth century. The great Homeric scholar Aristarchus of Alexandria 
believed that he lived about one hundred forty years after the Trojan 
War; since the Trojan War was generally dated (in our terms) around 
1200 b.c, Aristarchus' Homer was much earlier than the Homer of 



*The line numbers here and throughout, unless otherwise indicated, refer to the Fagles 
translations of the Odyssey and the Iliad, where the line numbers of the Greek text will be 
found at the top of every page. 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



Herodotus. Men might disagree about his date, but everyone believed 
that he was blind, and though some thought he came from Chios (a so- 
called Homeric hymn mentions a blind singer from Chios), others traced 
his origin to Smyrna. It was also generally assumed that Homer, though 
he speaks of singing and probably did sing in performance, was a poet 
using the same means of composition as his fifth-century successors — 
that is, writing. Even those who thought that his poems were not com- 
bined into their present shape until long after his death (that, for 
example, the last part of the Odyssey is a later addition), even those who 
believed that different poets wrote the Iliad and the Odyssey, the so-called 
Separatists — all assumed that Homer was a poet who composed as all 
poets since have done: with the aid of writing. And so did all succeeding 
centuries down to the eighteenth. Pope, whose translation of the Iliad is 
the finest ever made, speaks of Homer as if he were a poet like Milton or 
Shakespeare or himself. "HOMER" — so begins his Preface — "is univer- 
sally allow'd to have had the greatest Invention of any Writer whatever." 
Homer, it is taken for granted, wrote. 

There had been one skeptic in the ancient world who thought differ- 
ently. He was not a Greek but a Jew, Joseph ben Matthias. He wrote in 
Greek (for which, as he admits, he had a little help) a history of the 
Jewish rebellion against Roman rule in the first century a.d. and its 
savage repression by the emperor Titus — events in which he had played 
a prominent role. But he also wrote a pamphlet, countering the claim of 
a Greek writer, Apion, that the Jews had no history to speak of, since 
they were hardly mentioned in the works of Greek historians. Besides 
defending the historicity of the Old Testament chronicles, Josephus (to 
give him his Greek name) counterattacked by pointing out that the 
Greeks did not learn to write until very late in their history. The heroes 
of the Trojan War were "ignorant of the present-day mode of writing," 
he said, and even Homer "did not leave his poems in writing"; his sepa- 
rate songs were "transmitted by memory" and "not unified until much 
later." 

It is true that (with one remarkable exception, which is discussed 
later) no one in the Iliad or the Odyssey knows how to read or write. The 
Mycenaean scribes had used the complicated Linear B syllabary — eighty- 
seven signs for different combinations of consonant and vowel. It was a 
system only professional scribes could handle; in any case, all memory of 
it was lost with the destruction of the Mycenaean centers in the twelfth 
century b.c. The Greeks did not learn to write again until much later. 
This time, they took over an alphabet of fewer than twenty-five letters 
from the Phoenicians, a Semitic people whose merchant ships, sailing 



INTRODUCTION 



from their cities Tyre and Sidon on the Palestinian coast, reached every 
island and harbor of the Mediterranean Sea. The Phoenician alphabet 
consisted of signs for consonants only. The Greeks appropriated their 
symbols (alpha and beta are meaningless words in Greek, but their 
Phoenician equivalents, aleph and beth, mean "ox" and "house"), but by 
assigning some of the letters to the vowels, they created the first efficient 
alphabet, a letter system that provided one, and only one, sign for each 
sound in the language. 

Just when this creative adaptation took place is a subject of scholarly 
disagreement. Some of the letter shapes of the earliest Greek inscriptions 
look as if they had been copied from Phoenician scripts that date from as 
far back as the twelfth century. On the other hand, the earliest examples 
of Greek alphabetic writing, scratched or painted on broken pottery and 
found all over the Greek world from Rhodes in the east to Ischia, off the 
coast of Naples, in the west, are dated, by their archaeological contexts, 
to the last half of the eighth century b.c. 

But it was not until the eighteenth century that the possibility of 
Homeric illiteracy was once again proposed. The English traveler Robert 
Wood, in his Essay on the Original Genius of Homer (1769), suggested that 
Homer had been as illiterate as his own Achilles and Odysseus. The 
German scholar F. A. Wolf elaborated the theory in a learned discourse 
entitled Prolegomena ad Homerum, and the Homeric Question was 
launched on its long and complicated career. For if Homer was illiterate, 
Wolf declared, he could not possibly have composed poems as long as the 
Iliad and the Odyssey; he must have left behind him shorter, ballad-like 
poems, which, preserved by memory, were later (much later, in Wolf's 
opinion) put together in something like the form we now possess. Wolf's 
thesis was almost universally accepted as soon as published. It came at 
the right time. Almost a century before this, the Neapolitan philosopher 
Giambattista Vico had claimed that the Homeric poems were the creation 
not of one man but of the whole Greek people. The spirit of the age now 
sought to find works of untutored genius, songs and ballads, the expres- 
sion of a people's communal imagination — a contrast to the artificial cul- 
ture and literature of the Age of Reason. The Romantic rebellion was at 
hand. Everywhere in Europe, scholars began to collect, record and edit 
popular song, ballad, epic — the German Nibelungenlied, the Finnish Kale- 
vala, Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. And this was the age that 
saw the popularity, especially in Germany and France, of a fake collective 
bardic epic: the story of Ossian, a Gaelic hero, translated from the origi- 
nal Gaelic and collected in the Highlands by James Macpherson. In spite 
of the fact that Macpherson was never able to produce the originals, 



8 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



"Ossian" was admired by Goethe and Schiller; it was the favorite book of 
Napoleon Bonaparte. They should have listened to Samuel Johnson, 
who called the book "as gross an imposition as ever the world was 
troubled with." 

In such an atmosphere of enthusiasm for folk poetry, the discovery of 
a primitive Homer was more than welcome. And scholars, convinced 
that the Iliad and the Odyssey consisted of ancient shorter poems that had 
been sewn together by later compilers and editors, now addressed with 
gusto the task of deconstruction, of picking out the stitches and isolating 
the original "lays" or "ballads" in their primitive, pure beauty. The exer- 
cise continued throughout the whole of the nineteenth and into the 
twentieth century. 

It continued because of course no two scholars could agree about how 
to take the poems apart. This was understandable, since the criteria they 
were using — inconsistency of character, imbalance of structure, irrele- 
vance of theme or incident, clumsiness of transition — are notoriously 
subjective. At first the affair was a free-for-all; it seemed almost as if 
there were a competition to see who could find the greatest number of 
separate ballads. Karl Lachmann, in the mid-nineteenth century, after 
claiming that the newly discovered Nibelungenlied was a mosaic of short 
ballads (a theory now believed by no one), went on to divide the Iliad 
into eighteen original heroic songs. A similar theory of the origin of the 
Chanson de Roland was popular at about the same time. The idea was not 
as impossible as it now sounds; in fact, a contemporary of Lachmann, the 
Finnish scholar and poet Lonnrot, collected Finnish ballads on his travels 
as a country doctor in the most backward parts of the country and put 
them together to form the great Finnish epic, the Kalevala, a poem that 
has ever since been the foundation of the Finnish national conscious- 
ness. But Lachmann's analytical methods produced no agreement, only 
scholarly squabbles, conducted with the customary venom, about how 
long the pieces should be and exactly where to use the knife. 

The Iliad, in which the action is confined to Troy and the Trojan plain 
and lasts for no more than a few weeks, lent itself less easily to such sur- 
gical operations than the Odyssey, which ranges over ten years and vast 
spaces. It was easy for eager analysts to detect originally separate epics 
and short ballads. There was a Telemacheia (Books 1-4), the tale of a diffi- 
dent young prince's growth to full stature as a man and warrior. It con- 
tained what had originally been three separate ballads of the type known 
as Nostoi (Returns) — the voyages and homecomings of Nestor, Menelaus 
and Agamemnon. There was a long tale of a hero's voyage through far- 
off fabulous seas, like the saga of Jason's ship, the Argo, a song actually 



INTRODUCTION 



mentioned in the Odyssey (12.77). Embedded in this travel tale was a 
short but brilliant song about a sex scandal on Olympus — Ares and 
Aphrodite caught in flagrante delicto by her irate husband, Hephaestus. It 
is one of the songs of the blind bard Demodocus, who at the Phaeacian 
court tells also the tale of the quarrel between Achilles and Odysseus and 
another of Odysseus and the wooden horse that brought about the fall of 
Troy. There was also a full-scale Nostos, the return home of Odysseus, the 
welcome he received, and his vengeance on the suitors. 

The precise dimensions of these presumably once separate compo- 
nents and the stages of the process that led to their amalgamation were 
(and in the writings of many eminent critics still are) matters for specula- 
tion and dispute. Were there three main poets — one who composed the 
core of the epic (the wanderings and return of Odysseus), another who 
sang of the coming of age and travels of Telemachus, and a third who 
combined the two and forged the links that bind them? Or were there 
only two — the poet of the voyages and homecoming, and the other who 
added the Telemacheia and Book 24 (which many scholars consider a later 
addition in any case)? 

One obvious weakness of this line of argument is that the story of 
Telemachus is no fit subject for heroic song; there is nothing heroic about 
it until Telemachus takes his place, spear in hand, by his father's side in 
the palace at Ithaca. As a separate epic poem, the material of Books 1-4 is 
something hard to imagine in the historical context — a Bildungsroman, 
the story of a young man from a poor and backward island who asserts 
himself at home and visits the sophisticated courts of two rich and pow- 
erful kingdoms, to return home a grown man. Such a theme is worlds 
apart from the songs offered by bards in the Odyssey and the Iliad. 
Demodocus at the Phaeacian court tells the tale of the quarrel between 
Odysseus and Achilles, and later, at Odysseus' request, of the wooden 
horse that brought about Troy's fall. Phemius in the palace at Ithaca sings 
of the return of the Achaeans from Troy and the disasters inflicted on 
them by Athena, and when Penelope asks him to choose some other 
theme, she speaks of his knowledge of the "works of the gods and men 
that singers celebrate" (1.389). And in the Iliad, when the ambassadors 
from Agamemnon come to plead with Achilles to rejoin them on the 
battle line, they find him playing the lyre, "singing the famous deeds of 
fighting heroes" (9.228). A song celebrating the travels of Telemachus is 
not easy to imagine in the context of a male audience accustomed to 
tales of adventure and feats of arms. How would the bard begin? "Sing to 
me, Muse, of the coming of age of Telemachus . . ."? It seems much more 
likely that the Telemacheia was a creation of the poet who decided to 



10 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



combine a tale of adventures in fabulous seas — a western voyage mod- 
eled on the saga of the Argo's voyage to the east — with a Nostos, the 
return home of a hero from Troy, in this case to face a situation as dan- 
gerous as that awaiting Agamemnon. For that decision forced on him a 
radical departure from the traditional narrative procedure of heroic song 
and confronted him with a problem for which the Telemacheia was a mas- 
terly solution. 

Epic narrative characteristically announces the point in the story at 
which it begins and then proceeds in chronological order to its end. The 
Iliad opens with the poet's request to the Muse: "Rage — Goddess, sing 
the rage of Peleus' son Achilles"; he then tells her where to start: "Begin, 
Muse, when the two first broke and clashed, / Agamemnon lord of men 
and brilliant Achilles" (1.1-8). She does, and the story is told in strict 
chronological order until its end: "And so the Trojans buried Hector 
breaker of horses" (24.944). In the Odyssey, when Odysseus asks the 
Phaeacian bard Demodocus to "Sing of the wooden horse / Epeus built 
with Athena's help," the bard "launched out / in a fine blaze of song, 
starting at just the point / where the main Achaean force, setting their 
camps afire . . ." (8.552-61), and carries the story on until Troy falls. But 
the prologue to the Odyssey abandons this traditional request to the Muse 
or the singer to begin at a certain point. It begins, like the Iliad, with a 
request to the Muse to sound a theme — the wrath of Achilles, the wan- 
derings of Odysseus — but instead of telling her where to start — "Begin, 
Muse, when the two first broke and clashed" — it leaves the choice to her. 
"Launch out on his story, Muse, daughter of Zeus, / start from where you 
will" (1.11-12). And she does. She begins, not with Odysseus' departure 
from Troy (which is where he begins when he tells his story to the 
Phaeacians), but in the twentieth year of his absence from home, as 
Athena starts Telemachus on his journey to Pylos and Sparta and 
arranges Odysseus' escape from his seven-year captivity on Calypso's 
island. 

The reason for this startling departure from tradition is not far to seek. 
If the poet had begun at the beginning and observed a strict chronology, 
he would have been forced to interrupt the flow of his narrative as soon 
as he got his hero back to Ithaca, in order to explain the extremely com- 
plicated situation he would have to deal with in his home. The 
Telemacheia enables him to set the stage for the hero's return and to 
introduce the main participants in the final scenes — Athena, Tele- 
machus, Penelope, Eurycleia, Antinous, Eurymachus — as well as a group 
of minor players: Medon, the servant who helped rear Telemachus; 
Dolius, the servant of Laertes; Halitherses and Mentor, two old Ithacans 



INTRODUCTION 



11 



who disapprove of the suitors; the suitor Leocritus; and Phemius, the 
Ithacan bard. And the accounts of Telemachus' voyages do more than 
chart his progress, under Athena's guidance, from provincial diffidence 
to princely self-confidence in his dealings with kings; they also offer us 
two ideal visions of the hero's return, so different from what awaits 

Odysseus Nestor among his sons, Menelaus with his wife and daughter, 

both of them presiding over rich kingdoms and loyal subjects. 

Division into separate songs by different poets was not the only 
approach to dissecting the body of the Odyssey. The nineteenth century 
was the age that saw the birth of the scientific historical spirit. And also 
of the history of language — the discipline of linguistics. All this had a 
bearing on the problem. If in fact some sections of the Odyssey were older 
than others, they should contain linguistic features characteristic of an 
earlier stage of the language than that to be found in the more recent 
additions. Similarly, the later parts of the poem should contain allusions 
to customs, laws, objects and ideas belonging to the later historical 
period, and vice versa. Toward the end of the century a fresh criterion 
emerged for gauging the antiquity of different sections of the poem— the 
archaeological criterion. For with Heinrich Schliemann's excavations at 
Troy and Mycenae, and those of Sir Arthur Evans at Cnossos, a previ- 
ously unknown civilization was revealed. If there was any historicity to 
Homer's account of the Achaean world that organized the attack on 
Troy, it must be a reference to this world— a world of gold masks, bronze 
weapons, palaces and fortifications — not to the archaeologically poverty- 
stricken Greece of the Dark Age. Now, by finding in Homer descriptions 
of objects that corresponded to something excavated from a Bronze Age 
site, the scholar could date a passage, because it was clear that with the 
destruction of the Mycenaean and Minoan palaces, all memory of that 
age had disappeared in Greece. Schliemann and Evans had discovered 
things Herodotus and Thucydides had no idea of. 

Of these three approaches, the linguistic seemed the most promising, 
the most likely to yield objective criteria. Studies of the origins of Greek 
in the Indo-European family of languages had progressed along generally 
agreed and scientific lines: the history of the Greek language and the 
Greek dialects had become an exact discipline. Surely the linguistic 
analysis of the text would confirm or refute theories of earlier and later 
strata in the poems. 



12 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



THE LANGUAGE OF HOMER 



IV 



he language of Homer is of course a problem in itself. One thing is cer- 
tain: it is not a language that anyone ever spoke. It is an artificial, poetic 
language — as the German scholar Witte puts it, "The language of the 
Homeric poems is a creation of epic verse." It was also a difficult lan- 
guage. For the Greeks of the great age, that fifth century we inevitably 
think of when we say "the Greeks," the idiom of Homer was far from 
limpid (they had to learn the meaning of long lists of obscure words at 
school), and it was brimful of archaisms — in vocabulary, syntax and 
grammar — and of incongruities: words and forms drawn from different 
dialects and different stages of the growth of the language. In fact, the 
language of Homer was one nobody, except epic bards, oracular priests 
or literary parodists would dream of using. 

This does not mean that Homer was a poet known only to scholars 
and schoolboys; on the contrary, the Homeric epics were familiar as 
household words in the mouths of ordinary Greeks. They maintained 
their hold on the tongues and imaginations of the Greeks by their superb 
literary quality — the simplicity, speed and directness of the narrative 
technique, the brilliance and excitement of the action, the greatness and 
imposing humanity of the characters — and by the fact that they pre- 
sented the Greek people, in memorable form, with the images of their 
gods and the ethical, political and practical wisdom of their cultural tradi- 
tion. Homer was thus at once contemporary in content and antique in 
form. The texture of Homeric epic was for the classic age of Greece like 
that of the Elgin Marbles for us — weathered by time but speaking to us 
directly: august, authoritative, inimitable, a vision of life fixed forever in 
forms that seem to have been molded by gods rather than men. 

The language of Homer is the "creation of epic verse" in a strict sense 
too: it is created, adapted and shaped to fit the epic meter, the hex- 
ameter. This is a line, as its name indicates, of six metrical units, which 
may, to put it crudely, be either dactyls (a long plus two shorts) or 
spondees (two longs) in the first four places but must be dactyl 
and spondee in that order in the last two (rarely spondee and spondee, 
never spondee followed by dactyl). The syllables are literally long and 
short; the meter is based on pronunciation time, not, as in our language, 
on stress. But unlike most English verse, the meter does not allow depar- 
tures from the basic norms — such phenomena as the Shakespearean 
variations on the basic blank verse line, still less the subtleties of Eliot's 
prosody in The Waste Land. 



INTRODUCTION 



13 



Yet though it is always metrically regular, it never becomes monoto- 
nous; its internal variety guarantees that. This regularity imposed on 
variety is Homer's great metrical secret, the strongest weapon in his 
poetic arsenal. The long line, which no matter how it varies in the 
opening and middle always ends in the same way, builds up its hypnotic 
effect in book after book, imposing on things and men and gods the same 
pattern, presenting in a rhythmic microcosm the wandering course to a 
fixed end which is the pattern of the rage of Achilles and the travels of 
Odysseus, of all natural phenomena and all human destinies. 

The meter itself demands a special vocabulary, for many combinations 
of long and short syllables that are common in the spoken language 
cannot be admitted to the line — any word with three consecutive short 
syllables, for example, any word with one short syllable between two 
longs. This difficulty was met by choosing freely among the many varia- 
tions of pronunciation and prosody afforded by Greek dialectal differ- 
ences; the epic language is a mixture of dialects. Under a light patina of 
Attic forms (easily removable and clearly due to the preeminence of 
Athens as a literary center and then of the book trade), there is an indis- 
soluble mixture of two different dialects, Aeolic and Ionic. But the 
attempts of the linguists to use this criterion for early (Aeolic) and late 
(Ionic) ran into the dilemma that Aeolic and Ionic forms sometimes 
appear inextricably tangled in the same line or half-line. 

The attempts to dissect the Odyssey along historical lines were no more 
satisfactory (except of course to their authors). There are indeed passages 
that seem to imply different historical backgrounds, but they are not pas- 
sages that are identifiable as early or late by the criteria of linguistic dif- 
ference or structural analysis. All through the poem, weapons and armor 
are made of bronze — spearheads, arrow tips, swords, helmets and breast- 
plates; men are killed by "pitiless bronze." In superior palaces, like those 
of the gods or King Alcinous of the Phaeacians, bathtubs and cauldrons 
and even the threshold of the building are made of bronze. On the other 
hand, iron is used for axes and adzes; it is so familiar an item that it is 
constantly in use in metaphor and simile — "heart of iron," for example. 
But there is no way to separate Bronze Age from Iron Age layers; the two 
metals lie cheek by jowl, and even the distinction between bronze for 
weapons and iron for tools is often ignored — "Iron has powers to draw a 
man to ruin" is a proverbial phrase twice quoted by Odysseus (16.327, 
19.14), and a man who is dipping red-hot iron in water is called a 
chalkeus, a bronze or copper worker. Early in the poem, Athena, dis- 
guised as Mentes, says that she is sailing for Temese with a cargo of iron, 
which she intends to trade for bronze. 



14 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



But archaeological ages are not the only matter to be handled by the 
Muse with careless abandon. There seem to be two different marriage 
systems in the world of the Odyssey: in some passages the bride's family 
settles a dowry on the bride, but in others the suitor makes valuable gifts 
to the bride's family. "It is most probable," says a recent commentator 
on the Odyssey (West, Commentary, I, p. Ill), "that Homeric marriage- 
customs represent an amalgam of practices from different historical 
periods and different places, further complicated, perhaps, by misconcep- 
tion." They are obviously not much use for dating the passages in which 
they appear. 

It is not surprising, in view of such frustrating results, that by the 
beginning of the twentieth century, opinion had begun to swing away 
from analysis and to concentrate on the qualities of the poem itself, to 
stress the unity of the main action rather than the digressions and incon- 
sistencies, above all to explore the elaborate correspondences of structure 
that often link scene to scene. The architecture of the poem is magnifi- 
cent, and it strongly suggests the hand of one composer, but it is true that 
there is a certain roughness in the details of the execution. The poem 
does contain, in an indissoluble amalgam, material that seems linguisti- 
cally and historically to span many centuries. And it does contain long 
digressions, and some disconcerting inconsistencies, some weaknesses of 
construction. What sort of poet composed it, and how did he work? 

The answer was supplied by an American scholar, whose name was 
Milman Parry. Parry, who came from California and was an assistant 
professor at Harvard when he was killed in a gun accident at an early 
age, did his most significant work in Paris; in fact, he wrote it in French 
and published it in Paris in 1928. It did not appear in English until 1971, 
when, translated by his son, Adam Parry, it formed part of a collection of 
all his Homeric studies. His work was not appreciated or even fully 
understood until long after his death, in 1935, but once understood, it 
completely changed the terms of the problem. 

Parry's achievement was to prove that Homer was a master of and 
heir to a tradition of oral epic poetry that reached back over many gen- 
erations, perhaps even centuries. Parry drew attention to the so-called 
ornamental epithets, those long, high-sounding labels that accompany 
every appearance of a hero, a place, or even a familiar object. Odysseus, 
for example, is "much-enduring," "a man of many schemes," "godlike" 
and "great-hearted"; the island of Ithaca is "rocky," "seagirt" and "clear- 
skied"; ships are "hollow," "swift" and "well-benched," to list only some 
of the often polysyllabic epithets attached to them. These recurring epi- 
thets had of course been noticed before Parry, and their usefulness 



INTRODUCTION 



15 



understood. They offer, for each god, hero or object, a choice of epithets, 
each one with a different metrical shape. In other words, the particular 
epithet chosen by the poet may have nothing to do with, for example, 
whether Achilles is "brilliant" or "swift-footed" at this particular point in 
the poem — the choice depends on which epithet fits the meter. 

Parry pursued this insight of the German analytical scholars to its logi- 
cal end and demonstrated that in fact there was an intricate system of 
metrical alternatives for the recurring names of heroes, gods and objects. 
It was a system that was economical — hardly any unnecessary alterna- 
tives were used — but had great scope: there was a way to fit the names 
into the line in any of the usual grammatical forms they would assume. 
Parry demonstrated that the system was more extensive and highly orga- 
nized than anyone had dreamed, and he also realized what it meant. It 
meant that this system had been developed by and for the use of oral 
poets who improvised. In Paris he met scholars who had studied such 
improvising illiterate bards still performing in Yugoslavia. He went there 
to study their operations himself. 

The Homeric epithets were created to meet the demands of the meter 
of Greek heroic poetry, the dactylic hexameter. They offer the impro- 
vising bard different ways of fitting the name of his god, hero, or object 
into whatever section of the line is left after he has, so to speak, filled up 
the first half (that, too, quite possibly, with another formulaic phrase). 
Odysseus, for example, is often described as "much-enduring, brilliant 
Odysseus" — polutlas dibs Odusseus — a line ending. In Book 5 Calypso, who 
has had Odysseus to herself on her island for seven years, is ordered by 
the gods to release him and tells him he can go. But he suspects a trap, 
and shudders. "So she spoke," says Homer, "and he shuddered" — hbs 
phato rigesen de—and he ends with the formula "much-enduring, brilliant 
Odysseus" — polutlas dibs Odusseus — to form a hexameter line. A little later 
Calypso asks Odysseus how he can prefer his wife at home to her 
immortal charms, and his diplomatic answer is introduced by the for- 
mula: "and in answer he addressed her" — ten d' apomeibbmenbs prbsephe. 
But the line cannot be completed with "much-enduring, brilliant 
Odysseus"; that formula is too long for this position. So Odysseus ceases 
for the moment to be "much-enduring" and "brilliant" and becomes 
something that conforms to the metrical pattern: "a man of many 
schemes" — pblumetis Odusseus. The hero's name is especially adaptable- 
Homer uses two different spellings — Odusseus and Oduseus — which give 
the hero two different metrical identities. Often, however, the poet has 
to use the name in a different grammatical case from the nominative — 
the genitive Odiisebs, for example — and when that happens the hero 



16 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



becomes "blameless" — Oduseos amumonos — or, with the longer spelling 
of his name, "great-hearted" — Odusseds megaletoros. In the dative case 
he becomes "godlike" — antitheo Odusei — or "quick-minded" — Odusei 
daiphroni. The choice of epithet is dictated by the meter. So also the 
island of Ithaca is "rocky," "seagirt," "clear-skied" or "lying under Mount 
Neriton," depending on its grammatical case and position in the line; and 
under the same imperatives the Phaeacians appear as "great-hearted," 
"famous for ships" or "lords of the sea." As for the ships, objects as essen- 
tial to the story of Odysseus as spears and swords are to that of Achilles, 
they are "hollow," "swift," "black," "well-benched," "well-oared," "well- 
worked," "scooped-out," "fast-moving," "scarlet-cheeked" and "black - 
prowed," to name only the principal epithets that enable the poet to use 
them in any grammatical case and metrical position. 

This system, obviously the product of invention, refinement and 
elimination of superfluities over generations, could only be the work of 
oral bards, and in fact similar phenomena, though infinitely less sophisti- 
cated, are found in oral poetry, living and dead, in other languages. 
There was more to it, of course, than handy epithets. Whole lines, once 
honed to perfection by the bards of the tradition, became part of the 
repertoire; they are especially noticeable in recurring passages like 
descriptions of sacrifice, of communal eating and drinking. Such passages 
give the oral singer time to concentrate on what is coming next and, if he 
is a creative oral poet, to elaborate his own phrases mentally as he recites 
the formulas that he can sing without effort. He is helped, too, by the for- 
mulaic nature of whole themes, great type-scenes — the arming of the 
warrior for battle, the launching and beaching of ships. These are tradi- 
tional patterns that the audience expects and the bard may vary but not 
radically change. 

There is one aspect of Parry's discovery, however, that changed the 
whole problem of the nature of our Homeric text. The oral bard who 
uses such formulaic language is not, as scholars in the nineteenth cen- 
tury who struggled with the problem of illiterate bards all assumed, a 
poet reciting from memory a fixed text. He is improvising, along known 
lines, relying on a huge stock of formulaic phrases, lines and even whole 
scenes; but he is improvising. And every time he sings the poem, he may 
do it differently. The outline remains the same, but the text, the oral text, 
is flexible. The poem is new every time it is performed. 

If Homer's poetry is the culmination of a long tradition of such oral 
composition, many of the problems that bedeviled the Analysts are 
solved. Over the course of generations of trial and error, formulas are 
introduced and rejected or retained for their usefulness in improvisation, 



INTRODUCTION 



17 



without regard to linguistic consistency or historical accuracy. The lan- 
guage of the poets becomes a repository of all the combinations that have 
proved useful. Small wonder that Aeolic and Ionic forms appear in the 
same line, that a Mycenaean boar-tusk helmet can turn up in a passage 
in the Iliad, full of late linguistic forms, that people in the Odyssey some- 
times give dowries and sometimes demand payment for their daughter's 
hand, that cremation and inhumation are practiced side by side. As each 
new generation of singers re-creates the song, new formulas may be 
invented, new themes and scenes introduced; reflections of contem- 
porary reality creep into descriptions of the fighting, especially into the 
similes. But the dedication of epic poetry to the past and the continuing 
usefulness of so much traditional phraseology will slow the process of 
modernization and produce the unhistorical amalgam of customs, objects 
and linguistic forms that we find in our Homeric text. 

It is the fate of most new and valuable insights to be enthusiastically 
developed beyond the limits of certainty, or even of probability, and 
Parry's demonstration that Homeric poetry had an oral base has not 
escaped that fate. Phrases, even whole lines, that are repeated often 
enough to qualify as formulaic are indeed characteristic of the poet's dic- 
tion, but they do not account for more than a part of it — about one third 
of the whole. In an attempt to raise the formulaic element to a higher 
level, Parry counted as formulas expressions whose metrical pattern and 
position in the line were identical and that contained one word in 
common: for example, teuche etheke; alge' etheke; kudos etheke — he "put" the 
arms, the sorrows, the glory on. Not content with this, Parry went on to 
suggest, hesitantly, the inclusion in the system of similar expressions 
that, however, did not contain one word in common: dbken hetairo, for 
example, and teuche kiinessin — "he gave to his comrade," "he made [him 
prey] for the dogs." Some of Parry's followers have been less hesitant, 
and by this and other extensions of the meaning of "formula" have 
boosted the inherited content of Homer's verse to ninety percent. This of 
course leaves very little room for Homer as an individual creative poet. It 
seems in fact to be a return to the idea of Giambattista Vico: the poems 
are the creation of a people, of a tradition, of generations of nameless 
bards. 

But the argument for full formularity has feet of clay. A poet composing 
in a strict, demanding meter is bound to repeat syntactical combinations in 
identical positions, and the stricter the meter, the higher the incidence of 
such repeated patterns. English has no meters as precisely demanding as 
Homer's, but Alexander Pope, to take an example, is rich in lines that by 
rigid Parryite standards would qualify him as an illiterate bard: 



5 homer: the odyssey 

The Smiles of Harlots, and the Tears of Heirs 
The Fate of Louis and the Fall of Rome 

Proclaim their Motions, and provoke the War 
Maintain thy Honours, and enlarge thy Fame 

The shining Helmet, and the pointed Spears 
The silver Token, and the circled Green 

Weak was his Pace, but dauntless was his Heart 
Lame are their Feet, and wrinkled is their Face 



Samuel Johnson, in fact, wrote a description of Pope's technique that has 
more than a little resemblance to Parry's conception of the oral poet. "By 
perpetual practice, language had in his mind a systematical arrangement; 
having always the same use for words, he had words so selected and 
combined as to be ready at his call." 

Extravagant claims for the predominance of formula in Homeric 
poetry have now been generally discounted, and even Parry's basic 
theses have been shown to need modification in the light of later exami- 
nation. There are many cases, for example, where a truly formulaic epi- 
thet does in fact seem to be poetically functional in its context. There are 
cases where verbal repetition is so poetically effective that it must be the 
result of poetic design rather than the working of a quasi-mechanical 
system. Careful investigation of the type-scenes — the ceremony of sacri- 
fice, the arming of the warrior, and so on — has revealed that although 
sometimes whole verses are repeated from one scene to another, no two 
scenes are exactly similar. "Each occurrence," to quote a recent evalua- 
tion (Edwards, p. 72), "is unique, and often specifically adapted to its 
context." Even the basic concept of economy, the strict limitation of the 
epithets for one god or hero to those needed in different cases and posi- 
tions, has been questioned: a recent study shows that in his analysis of 
the epithets for Achilles, Parry considered only the phrases containing 
the hero's name, ignoring other ways of identifying Achilles, such as 
"Peleus' son" (Shive, passim). All this, together with the monumental 
scale and magnificent architecture of the Iliad, the complex structure of 
the Odyssey, makes the image of Homer as an illiterate bard, totally 
dependent on ready-made formulas and stock scenes for improvised per- 
formance, hard to accept. 

There is nevertheless fairly general agreement that Parry was right in 
one thing: Homer's unique style does show clearly that he was heir to a 



INTRODUCTION 



19 



long tradition of oral poetry. There is, however, one problem that Parry 
raised but did not solve: Homer may or may not have been as illiterate as 
his forerunners, but at some time the Iliad and the Odyssey were written 
down. When, by whom, for what purpose and in what circumstances 
was this done? 

The most likely date for the composition of the Iliad is the fifty years 
running from 725 to 675 B.C.; for the Odyssey, somewhat later in the 
period. That is also the time to which the earliest examples of Greek 
alphabetic writing can be dated. Did Homer take advantage of the new 
technique to record for future singers the huge poems he had composed 
without the aid of writing? Did writing perhaps play a role in its compo- 
sition? To both these questions Parry's collaborator and successor, Albert 
Lord, gave an emphatically negative answer. "The two techniques are . . . 
mutually exclusive ... It is conceivable that a man might be an oral poet 
in his younger years and a written poet later in life, but it is not possible 
that he be both an oral and a written poet at any given time in his career" 
(p. 129). Lord based this assertion on his experience with Yugoslav oral 
poets who, when they came in contact with literate urban societies, lost 
their gift for improvised recitation. He envisaged a Homer, an oral bard at 
the height of his powers, who dictated his poem to a scribe, one who had 
mastered the new art of writing. This was of course how the songs of illit- 
erate Yugoslav bards had been written down (sometimes with the aid of 
primitive recording equipment) by Parry and Lord. 

This scenario did not satisfy everyone. The analogy with modern 
Yugoslavia, for example, was flawed. When the bards there learned to 
read and write, they were immediately exposed to the corrupting influ- 
ence of newspapers, magazines and cheap fiction, but if Homer learned 
to write in the late eighth century, there was little or nothing for him to 
read. Lord's generalization about the incompatibility of the two tech- 
niques has been questioned by students of oral poetry; in other parts of 
the world (particularly in Africa), they find no such dichotomy. "The 
basic point ... is the continuity of oral and written literature. There is no 
deep gulf between the two: they shade into each other both in the pres- 
ent and over many centuries of historical development, and there are 
innumerable cases of poetry which has both 'oral' and 'written' ele- 
ments" (Finnegan, p. 24). Furthermore, the extant specimens of alpha- 
betic writing of the eighth and early seventh centuries b.c. make it hard 
to believe in a scribe of the period who could take dictation at or, for that 
matter, anywhere near performance speed: the letters are freestanding 
capitals, crudely and laboriously formed, written from right to left, or 



20 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



from right to left and left to right on alternate lines. One critic, in fact, 
irreverently conjured up a picture of Homer dictating the first line (or 
rather the first half-line) of the Iliad: "Menin aeide thea . . . You got that?" 

A different scenario for the transition from oral performance to 
written text was developed by Geoffrey Kirk. The epics were the work of 
an oral "monumental composer," whose version imposed itself on bards 
and audiences as the definitive version. They "then passed through at 
least a couple of generations of transmission by decadent and quasi- 
literate singers and rhapsodes" (Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary, I, p. xxv) — 
that is, performers who were not themselves poets. Lord's objection 
to this, that memorization plays no part in the living oral tradition, 
was based on Yugoslav experience, but elsewhere — in Somalia, for 
example — very long poems are recited from memory by professional 
reciters who are themselves, in many cases, poets. 

What neither of these theories explains, however, is the immense 
length of the poem. Why should an oral, illiterate poet, whose poetry 
exists only in its performance before an audience, create a poem so long 
that it would take several days to perform? For that matter, if his poetry 
existed only in performance, how could he create a poem of such length? 
If, on the other hand, he delivered different sections of it at different 
times and places, how could he have elaborated the variations on theme 
and formula and the inner structural correspondences that distinguish 
the Homeric epics so sharply from the Yugoslav texts collected by Parry 
and Lord? 

It is not surprising that many recent scholars in the field have come to 
the conclusion that writing did indeed play a role in the creation of these 
extraordinary poems, that the phenomena characteristic of oral epic 
demonstrated by Parry and Lord are balanced by qualities peculiar to lit- 
erary composition. They envisage a highly creative oral poet, master of 
the repertoire of inherited material and technique, who used the new 
instrument of writing to build, probably over the course of a lifetime, an 
epic poem on a scale beyond the imagination of his predecessors. 

The last half of the eighth century was the time in which writing was 
coming into use all over the Greek world. Homer must have known of its 
existence, but the traditional nature of his material naturally forbade its 
appearance in the relentlessly archaic world of his heroes, who belonged 
to the time when men were stronger, braver and greater than men are 
now, a world in which men and gods spoke face-to-face. Even so, Homer 
does show, in one particular instance, that he was conscious of the new 
technique. In Book 6 of the Iliad Glaucus tells the story of his grandfather 
Bellerophon, whom Proetus, king of Argos, sent off with a message to 



INTRODUCTION 



21 



the king of Lycia, Proetus' father-in-law; it instructed the king to kill the 
bearer: "[He] gave him tokens, / murderous signs, scratched in a folded 
tablet" (6.198-99). There has been much discussion about the nature of 
these signs, but the word Homer uses — grapsas, literally "scratching" — is 
later the normal word used for "writing," and pinax — "tablet" — is the 
word used by later Greeks to describe the wooden boards coated with 
wax that were used for short notes. 

If Homer could write, what did he write on? Obviously, "tablets" 
would not be adequate. We do not know when papyrus, the paper of the 
ancient world, was first available in Greece, though we do know that it 
came at first not from its almost exclusive source, Egypt — which was not 
opened to Greek merchants until the sixth century b.c. — but from the 
Phoenician port the Greeks called Byblos (the Greek word for book was 
biblion — our "Bible"). Archaeological evidence for Phoenician imports 
into Greece dates from the ninth century b.c, and Phoenician traders are 
mentioned in the Iliad (23.828) and their operations described with a 
wealth of detail in the Odyssey. But even if papyrus was not available in 
quantity, there were other materials, such as animal skins. Herodotus, 
writing in the fifth century b.c, says that in his time the Ionian Greeks 
still used the word diphthera — "skin" — when they meant "book." 

The crudity of the script in the eighth century meant that writing was 
a laborious business. If Homer did use writing in the composition of the 
poem, it is likely that the process extended over many years. Episodes 
from the Odyssean voyages (the one-eyed giant) or from the return of 
Odysseus (the slaughter in the hall) would be brought to near perfection 
in oral performance, perhaps combined with other episodes to form 
longer units for special occasions (Odysseus among the Phaeacians, the 
beggar in the palace) and eventually committed to writing. Gradually a 
complete text would be assembled, to be refined in detail and extended 
by insertions, the longer sections welded into unity by connecting links. 
It was inevitable in such a process, with writing a newly acquired skill 
and writing materials, papyrus or leather, not convenient for cross- 
reference, that the final version should contain inconsistencies. No one 
has ever, in spite of repeated and ingenious efforts, been able to produce 
a totally convincing ground plan of the palace of Odysseus; people enter 
and emerge from rooms that seem to shift position from one episode to 
the next. There are also inconsistencies in the location of the characters. 
In Book 1 5, for example, when Telemachus and Theoclymenus, the fugi- 
tive he has taken under his wing, arrive at Ithaca, they go ashore and 
Theoclymenus sees a hawk carry off a dove, a bird sign that he interprets 
as a prophecy of victory for Telemachus. But later, when he refers to this 



22 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



incident, he says that he saw the hawk as he "sat on the benched ship" 
(17.175). 

These are inconsistencies typical of poetry improvised in dramatic pre- 
sentation; the wonder is that there are not many more of them in so long 
and complex a poem. Though pointed out in scholarly commentaries, 
they rarely disturb the ordinary reader today, and of course Homer's 
original audiences, even if they had been critically disposed, would have 
been hard put to cite chapter and verse for their objections. But in fact 
the poet's listeners were not in a critical frame of mind. The word Homer 
uses to describe audience reaction to the longest epic recital in the 
Odyssey — the hero's tale of his wandering course from Troy to the court 
of the Phaeacian king, where he now sits at the banquet table — is 
kelethmos, "enchantment." "His story [held] them spellbound down the 
shadowed halls" (13.2). Many centuries later, in Plato's dialogue Ion, a 
rhapsode, a professional reciter of the Homeric epics, echoes Homer's 
words as he describes the audience's reaction to his performance. "I look 
down on them weeping, gazing at me with an awe-struck look, joining 
me in my astonishment at the words I am speaking." 

The surprising thing is that the inconsistencies stayed in the text. If 
Homer, as in Lord's model, had dictated his poem, the scribe could 
hardly have failed to notice and correct them. In fact, Lord records such 
corrections in the course of dictation in Yugoslavia. And it seems hard to 
imagine the lines going uncorrected in Kirk's scenario of a monumental 
poem preserved by recitation for a generation or two before being 
written down. Any rhapsode (and in the earlier generation he would 
have been an oral poet himself) could have corrected the lines without 
effort and would have seen no reason not to do so. There seems to be 
only one possible explanation of their survival in the text: that the text 
was regarded as authentic, the exact words of Homer himself. And that 
can only mean that there was a written copy. 

This is of course pure speculation, but so are all other attempts to 
explain the origin of the text that has come down to us. We shall never 
be able to answer the questions it raises with any certainty and must rest 
content with the fact that a great poet marshaled the resources of an age- 
old traditional art to create something new — the tales of the wrath of 
Achilles and the wanderings of Odysseus that have been models for epic 
poetry ever since. 



INTRODUCTION 



23 



THE ODYSSEY AND THE ILIAD 

Xt has always been assumed that the Odyssey was composed later than the 
Iliad. One ancient critic, the author of the treatise On the Sublime, thought 
that the Odyssey was the product of Homer's old age, of "a mind in decline; 
it was a work that could be compared to the setting sun — the size re- 
mained, without the force." He did, however, temper the harshness of 
that judgment by adding: "I am speaking of old age — but it is the old age of 
Homer." What prompted his comment "without the force" is clearly his 
preference for the sustained heroic level of the Iliad over what he terms 
the Odyssey's presentation of "the fabulous and incredible" as well as the 
realistic description of life in the farms and palace of Odysseus' domain, 
which, he says, "forms a kind of comedy of manners." His judgment is of 
course determined by the conception of the "sublime" which is the focus 
of his book, one that did not welcome scenes like those offered by Book 18 
of the Odyssey — a fistfight between two ragged beggars, for example, or the 
award of a sizzling-hot goat's-blood sausage full of fat to the winner. 

On the Sublime was written sometime in the first century a.d., but a dif- 
ferent scenario for the relation of the Iliad to the Odyssey had already been 
proposed in the second century b.c. A number of scholars, known as chor- 
izontes — "separators" — recognized that the Odyssey was composed later 
than the Iliad but suggested that it had a different author. This is the posi- 
tion taken also by many modern scholars, who find significant differences 
between the two poems not only in vocabulary and grammatical usage 
but also in what they consider development from the Iliad to the Odyssey in 
moral and religious ideas and attitudes. Estimates of the validity of such 
evidence vary, however, and there are those who find it hard to accept the 
idea of the emergence of two major epic poets in such a short span of time. 

That the Odyssey was composed later than the Iliad can hardly be 
doubted. For one thing, though it takes for granted the audience's knowl- 
edge not just of the Trojan War saga but of the particular form it has been 
given in the Iliad, it carefully avoids duplicating its material. Incidents 
from the tale of Troy are frequently recalled, sometimes in detail and at 
length, but they all fall outside the time frame of the Iliad, occurring 
either before or after the period of forty-one days that began with the 
wrath of Achilles and ended with the burial of Hector. Demodocus at the 
Phaeacian court sings of the quarrel between Odysseus and Achilles (an 
incident not mentioned in the Iliad or, for that matter, anywhere else in 
extant Greek literature) and later of the wooden horse that brought the 
siege to an end. In the palace at Ithaca, the theme of the minstrel Phemius 



24 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



is the sufferings of the heroes on their way home from the war. Nestor at 
Pylos tells Telemachus how Agamemnon and Menelaus quarreled after 
the fall of Troy and took separate routes home. Helen and Menelaus 
at Sparta tell stories about Odysseus at Troy, neither of them familiar 
from the Iliad. Even when Odysseus meets the shades of his com- 
rades Agamemnon and Achilles in Hades, Iliadic material is avoided: 
Agamemnon tells the story of his death at the hands of his wife and her 
lover, Odysseus tells Achilles about the heroic feats of arms of his son 
Neoptolemus and later talks to Ajax about the award of the arms of 
Achilles. 

That the poet of the Odyssey knew the Iliad in its contemporary form is 
strongly suggested also by the continuity of character delineation from 
one poem to the other. In the Odyssey they are all older, those of them 
who are still alive, but they are recognizably the same men. Nestor is still 
regal, punctilious and long-winded. Menelaus' generous reaction to 
Telemachus' tactful refusal of his gift of chariot and horses recalls his 
princely response to young Antilochus' apology for his unsportsmanlike 
maneuver in the chariot race at the funeral games for Patroclus. Helen is 
still, at Sparta as she was at Troy, the poised mistress of a difficult situa- 
tion. And Odysseus is still the spellbinding speaker Antenor remembered 
in Book 3 of the Iliad, whose "words came piling on like a driving winter 
blizzard" (3.267); he is still "the man of twists and turns" Helen identified 
for Priam in the same passage (3.244). And he is still the man "who says 
one thing but hides another in his heart" (9.379) — Achilles' description 
of the kind of man he hates (he is addressing Odysseus, who has come as 
Agamemnon's ambassador). Odysseus is still the quick-thinking and 
resourceful leader who by prompt action stemmed the rush for the ships 
caused by Agamemnon's foolish decision to test the morale of the troops 
by suggesting that they go home. 

But in the Odyssey he is no longer one of many heroes fighting 
between the beached ships and the walls of Troy. He is on his own, first 
as admiral of a small fleet, then as captain of an isolated ship, and finally 
as a shipwrecked sailor clinging to a piece of wreckage. The scenes of his 
action and suffering widen to include not only the coasts and islands of 
the Aegean Sea and continental Greece but also, in the false travel tales 
he spins in his disguise as a beggar, Crete, Cyprus, Phoenicia and Sicily, 
and, in the stories he tells the Phaeacians at their feast, the unknown 
world of the western seas, full of marvels and monsters. Those ships that 
in the Iliad lie beached behind a palisade and, with Achilles out of the 
fighting, face the fury of Hector's assault, return in the Odyssey to their 
natural element, the wine-dark sea. 



INTRODUCTION 



25 



THE WESTERN SEAS 



Ma 



Lany centuries after Homer, the Florentine Dante Alighieri, who had 
not read Homer and whose information about Ulysses (the Latin form of 
Odysseus' name) came from Virgil and Ovid, saw in the Greek hero a 
vision of the restless explorer, the man who, discontented with the mun- 
dane life of that home he had longed for, set off again in search of new 
worlds. "Neither the pleasure I took in my son," he says in the Inferno, 
"nor reverence for my aged father, nor the love I owed Penelope that 
should have made her joyful, could prevail against the passion I felt to 
win experience of the world, of human vice and worth." He sets sail for 
Gibraltar and launches out into the Atlantic, following the sun "to the 
world where no one lives." This theme was taken up in Tennyson's 
"Ulysses," where the hero announces his purpose "to sail beyond the 
sunset, and the baths / Of all the western stars ..." 

But these visions of Odysseus as the restless explorer, hungry for new 
worlds, have little to do with Homer's Odysseus, who wants above all 
things to find his way home and stay there. It is true that, as Homer tells 
us in the prologue, he saw "many cities of men . . . and learned their 
minds" (1.4); once afloat in uncharted seas, he has a thoroughly Greek 
curiosity about the inhabitants of the landfalls he makes, but the voyage 
was none of his choosing. He was "driven time and again off course, once 
he had plundered / the hallowed heights of Troy" (1.2-3), and far from 
seeking "experience of the world," he was "fighting to save his life and 
bring his comrades home" (1.6). 

Odysseus' wanderings in the west have inspired many attempts to plot 
his course and identify his ports of call. This wild-goose chase had begun 
already in the ancient world, as we know from the brusque dismissal of 
such identifications by the great Alexandrian geographer Eratosthenes, 
who said that you would be able to chart the course of Odysseus' wan- 
derings when you found the cobbler who sewed the bag in which Aeolus 
confined the winds. This of course has not deterred modern scholars and 
amateurs from trying; their guesses run from the possible — Charybdis as 
a mythical personification of whirlpools in the straits between Sicily and 
the toe of the Italian boot — to the fantastic: Calypso's island as Iceland. 
According to one investigator of the subject, "There have been some sev- 
enty theories proposed since Homer wrote the Odyssey, with locations 
bounded only by the North and South Poles and ranging within the 
inhabited world from Norway to South Africa and from the Canary 
Islands to the Sea of Azov" (Clarke, p. 251). 



26 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



But even identifications that are not obviously ridiculous seem 
implausible in the light of Homer's confused geographical notions of 
areas much nearer home. He knows the Asia Minor coast and the 
Aegean islands: Nestor on the alternative routes from Troy across the 
Aegean sounds like an expert seaman. But Homer's notion of Egypt, 
where Menelaus was delayed by contrary winds and where Odysseus in 
his lying tales often lands, is, to put it mildly, vague. Menelaus describes 
the island of Pharos, which is one mile off the coast, as distant as far as a 
ship runs in a whole day with the wind behind her. And when Homer's 
characters move to mainland Greece and its western offshore islands, 
confusion reigns. His description of Ithaca is so full of contradictions that 
many modern scholars have proposed Leucas or Cephallenia as the real 
home of Odysseus rather than the island that now bears the name. 
Homer also displays total ignorance of the geography of mainland 
Greece: his Telemachus and Pisistratus go from Pylos on the west coast to 
Sparta in a horse-drawn chariot over a formidable mountain barrier that 
had no through road in ancient times. 

But Homer's hazy notions of any area outside the Aegean is only one of 
the objections to the idea of assigning western locations to Circe's island 
and the land of the Lotus-eaters. A great many of the incidents in 
Odysseus' wanderings are obviously based on a different voyage, the 
voyage of the Argo, which, with a crew of heroes captained by Jason, 
sailed not the western but the eastern seas. The Laestrygonians who attack 
Odysseus' ships with rocks have their counterparts in the Argonauts' saga; 
Circe is the sister of Aeetes, keeper of the golden fleece, and Homer him- 
self locates her island not in the west but in the east — where the sun rises. 
The Clashing Rocks are also a feature of Jason's voyage, and the poem 
that celebrates it is specifically mentioned by Homer at this point. And the 
Sirens appear in Apollonius' poem the Argonautica, which, though written 
in the second century B.C., certainly drew on the earlier poem to which 
Homer refers. What Homer has done is to transfer episodes from a mythi- 
cal epic journey in eastern waters to the western seas. 

It was of course a geographical imperative that if Odysseus was to be 
blown off course on his way home, the wind would take him west. But 
that imperative must have been eagerly welcomed by Homer and his 
audience, for the early years of the eighth century b.c. saw the begin- 
nings of what was to become a large-scale movement of Greek traders 
and, later, colonists into the western Mediterranean. Odysseus, when he 
declines the invitation of a young Phaeacian to compete in an athletic 
contest, is contemptuously dismissed as no athlete but 



INTRODUCTION 



27 



"some skipper of profiteers, 
roving the high seas in his scudding craft, 
reckoning up his freight with a keen eye out 
for home-cargo, grabbing the gold he can!" 



(8.186-89) 



The traders were soon followed by the colonists. The first settlement 
seems to have been Pithecusae, on the island of Ischia in the Bay of 
Naples; it was not a city but a trading station and is dated by archaeo- 
logical evidence not later than 775 b.c By 700 there were Greek cities in 
Italy: Cumae, on the mainland opposite Ischia; Rhegium (Reggio Cala- 
bria), on the toe of the Italian boot; and the proverbially wealthy city of 
Sybaris, on the instep, as well as Taras (Taranto) in the same area. On 
the neighboring island of Sicily, Syracuse and Zancle (Messina) were 
founded around 725. Still later were to come settlements on the 
southern coast of France: Massilia (Marseilles), Antipas (Antibes) and 
Nicaea (Nice), as well as Cyrene on the coast of what is now Libya. 

Long before the first colonists set out, there must have been many 
voyages of trader-explorers, who no doubt brought back tales of wonders 
and dangers that improved in the telling. Charybdis, for example, may 
possibly be a fantastic version of the currents and whirlpools that are 
sometimes encountered in the straits between Sicily and the mainland. 
And though the Cyclops' gigantic size and one eye mark him as mythical, 
his pastoral economy and ferocity toward strangers may be a memory of 
the indigenous populations who opposed the intruders landing on their 
shores — a demonized vision of the native, like Shakespeare's Caliban. 
The Tempest was written in a similar age of exploration, and though Pros- 
pero and Ariel have powers that are not of this world, there can be no 
doubt that the wonders of the play are an imaginative reworking of the 
tall tales of the sailors and pirates who for half a century had sailed the 
Central American seas in search of land to settle, Spanish ships to board, 
Spanish towns to sack, or Spanish buyers for their cargoes of African 
slaves. We know, in fact, that Shakespeare must have read some of the 
accounts of the shipwreck of the Sea-Venture, the flagship of a fleet on its 
way to the Virginia colony, in a "dreadful and hideous storm" off the 
island of Bermuda, and the company's survival and eventual arrival at 
the colony — a series of events that one of the accounts calls "a tragical 
comedy." 

And there is one passage in the Odyssey that is a clear reminiscence of 
Greek voyages of exploration in the west. When Odysseus comes to the 
land of the Cyclops, he sees a small island offshore, which is fertile and 



28 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



well stocked with wild goats, but uninhabited. The Cyclops, he explains 
to his Phaeacian audience, 

"have no ships with crimson prows, 
no shipwrights there to build them good trim craft . . . 
Such artisans would have made this island too 
a decent place to live in ... No mean spot, 
it could bear you any crop you like in season. 
The water-meadows along the low foaming shore 
run soft and moist, and your vines would never flag. 
The land's clear for plowing. Harvest on harvest, 
a man could reap a healthy stand of grain — 
the subsoil's dark and rich." (9.138-49) 

It is the authentic voice of the explorer evaluating a site for settlement. 



VOYAGER 



0< 



'dysseus' voyage to the fabulous western seas begins in the everyday 
world, as he leaves the ruins of Troy homeward bound, his ships loaded 
with booty from the sack of the city. As if that booty were not enough for 
him, he attacks the first settlement he comes to on his way, the town of 
Ismarus on the Thracian coast opposite Troy: 



"... I sacked the city, 
killed the men, but as for the wives and plunder, 
that rich haul we dragged away from the place — 
we shared it round ..." 



(9.45-48) 



It is sheer piracy — Ismarus was not a Trojan ally — but it is obviously an 
action not unusual in its time and place; one of Odysseus' epithets is in 
fact ptoliporthos, "sacker of cities." Nestor at Pylos politely asks Tele- 
machus and Pisistratus if they are 



"Out on a trading spree or roving the waves like pirates, 
sea-wolves raiding at will, who risk their lives 
to plunder other men?" 



(3.81-83) 



And Polyphemus asks Odysseus the same question (9.286-88). Thucy- 
dides, writing in the fifth century B.C., was probably thinking of passages 



INTRODUCTION 



29 



like these when, speaking of the measures taken by Minos to suppress 
piracy in the Aegean, he pointed out that in ancient times "this occupa- 
tion was held to be honorable rather than disgraceful. This is proved . . . 
by the testimony of ancient poets, in whose verses newly arrived visitors 
are always asked whether they are pirates, a question that implies no dis- 
approval of such an occupation on the part of either those who answer 
with a disclaimer or those who ask for the information." Piracy was 
endemic in the Aegean — a sea of islands large and small, of jagged coast- 
lines full of hidden harbors — whenever there was no central sea power 
strong enough to suppress it. Long after Minos, in the fifth century, an 
Athenian fleet under the command of Cimon cleared out a nest of pirates 
on the island of Scyros. Many centuries later the young Julius Caesar 
was captured by pirates near the small island of Pharmacusa off the 
Ionian coast and held for ransom. The seas became so unsafe that in 
67 b.c. Cnaeus Pompeius was given the overriding authority to deal with 
the problem and did so by manning 270 warships and mobilizing 
100,000 troops. Whenever there was a power vacuum in the Aegean, 
piracy reappeared; as late as the 1820s Arab corsairs carried off the 
inhabitants of the Greek island of Cythera to sell in the slave market at 
Algiers. 

Cythera is the island off Cape Malea past which Odysseus, trying to 
turn north toward Ithaca, was blown west for nine days, off the map, 
into a world of wonders and terrors, of giants and witches, goddesses and 
cannibals, of dangers and temptations. The tales of his landfalls and the 
welcomes he received differ widely in content and scope, but they are 
connected by a common theme, on which they are all variations. It is a 
theme fundamental for the Odyssey as a whole, pervasive not only in the 
wandering voyage of the hero but also in the opening books, which deal 
with Telemachus at home and abroad, and in the last half of the poem, 
which presents us with Odysseus, disguised as a ragged beggar, home at 
last in his own house. This theme is, briefly stated, the relation between 
host and guest, particularly the moral obligation to welcome and protect 
the stranger, an obligation imposed on civilized mankind by Zeus, one of 
whose many titles is xeinios, "protector of strangers." "Zeus of the 
Strangers," says Odysseus to the one-eyed giant in his cave, "guards all 
guests and suppliants" (9.304). 

Zeus is invoked as the divine patron and enforcer of a code of conduct 
that helps to make travel possible in a world of piracy at sea, cattle raid- 
ing and local war by land, of anarchic competition between rival fami- 
lies — a world with no firm central authority to impose law and order. In 
such a world, a man who leaves his home depends on the kindness of 



30 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



strangers. Without a universally recognized code of hospitality, no man 
would dare travel abroad; its observance is therefore a matter of self- 
interest. One of its almost ritual components is the parting gift offered by 
the host. So when Athena, in the shape of Mentes, takes leave of 
Telemachus, he tells her to go back to her ship "delighted with a gift, . . . 
something rare and fine . . . The kind of gift / a host will give a stranger, 
friend to friend" (1.357-60). Athena does not wish to be burdened with 
the gift now; she asks him to save it for her so that she can take it on her 
way back. "Choose something rare and fine, and a good reward / that gift 
is going to bring you" (1.365-66). The reward is not a cash payment; it is 
the reciprocal hospitality and gift Telemachus will receive when he goes 
to visit Mentes. So Odysseus, in his false tale to Laertes at the end of the 
poem, pretends to be a man who entertained Odysseus once on his 
travels and loaded him with gifts. He has stopped at Ithaca now to visit 
Odysseus. The old man tells him Odysseus has never returned and must 
be dead. 



"But if you'd found him alive, here in Ithaca, 
he would have replied in kind, with gift for gift, 
and entertained you warmly . . . 
That's the old custom, when one has led the way." 



(24.315-18) 



The host's gift is so fixed a feature of the relationship that the guest can 
even ask for something else, if the proffered gift is not suitable. So 
Telemachus, offered a splendid chariot and team of horses by Menelaus, 
declines the offer. "Those horses I really cannot take to Ithaca," where 
there is "No running-room for mares ... no meadows." His island is 
"Goat, not stallion, land" (4.676-82). Menelaus, far from being taken 
aback, recognizes his frankness as the mark of aristocratic birth and 
breeding — "Good blood runs in you, dear boy" — and offers him instead "a 
mixing-bowl, forged to perfection — / it's solid silver finished off with a 
lip of gold" (4.688-93). The bowl, he goes on to explain, was itself a gift 
from a host, Phaedimus, king of the Phoenician city of Sidon, with whom 
he stayed on his wandering course home from Troy. 

Throughout his voyage, Odysseus will be dependent on the kindness 
of strangers, their generosity as hosts. Some of them, like the Phaeacians 
and Aeolus, king of the winds, will be perfect hosts, entertaining him lav- 
ishly and sending him on his way with precious gifts. Others will be sav- 
ages, threatening his life and taking the lives of his crew. Still others will 
be importunate hosts, delaying the guest's departure — an infraction of 
the code. "I'd never detain you here too long," Menelaus says to Tele- 



INTRODUCTION 



31 



machus. "I'd find fault with another host . . . too warm to his guests." 
And taking a leaf from Pope's translation, he formulates the golden rule: 
" 'Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest!' " (15.74-81, see note 
ad loc). Many of Odysseus' hosts seem to have heard only the first 
half of that injunction. Circe is a charming hostess, but she charms her 
guests out of human shape and keeps them forever. Calypso too would 
have kept Odysseus forever, but in his own shape, perpetually young. 
The Sirens would have kept him forever also, but dead. Calypso and 
Circe, however, when the time comes to speed the parting guest, pro- 
vide the requisite gifts. Calypso sends a fair wind to send his raft on its 
way, and Circe gives him precious instructions — how to deal with the 
Sirens, the warning not to kill the cattle of the Sun. Telemachus also has 
to deal with an importunate host. On his way back from Sparta to Pylos, 
he manages to evade what he fears will be an intolerable delay if he 
goes to Nestor's palace. "Your father's old," he says to his companion 
Pisistratus, 



"... in love with his hospitality; 
I fear he'll hold me, chafing in his palace- 
I must hurry home!" 



(15.223-25) 



Telemachus will return to a house where the suitors of Penelope repre- 
sent an unusual infraction of the code: they are uninvited guests who 
abuse and waste their reluctant host's possessions. Showing their utter 
contempt for the idea that wanderers, beggars and suppliants are under 
the special protection of Zeus, they offer insults and physical violence to 
Odysseus, the ragged beggar who, as they will eventually find out to 
their cost, is their unwilling host. 

Odysseus' first landfall after passing Cape Malea is the country of the 
Lotus-eaters, who offer three of his men food that would have kept them 
as permanent guests — 

"[they] lost all desire to send a message back, much less return, 

... all memory of the journey home 

dissolved forever." (9.107-10) 



— if Odysseus had not dragged them, weeping, back to the ships. The 
Lotus-eaters, as he reports, "had no notion of killing my companions" 
(9.104), but his next host, the Cyclops, not only kills but also eats six of 
them. Odysseus' invocation of Zeus as protector of strangers is met with 
scorn — "We Cyclops never blink at Zeus ... or any other blessed god" 



32 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



(9.309-10) — and Odysseus' request for a guest-gift is met with the con- 
cession that Odysseus will be eaten last, after all his crew. Odysseus 
makes his escape only because of the resourcefulness for which he is 
famous, but in order to trick the Cyclops he has to suppress his identity 
and give his name as Nobody. 

Deceit is indispensable if he and his crew are to escape, but though he 
is master of all the arts of deceit, this particular subterfuge is one his 
whole nature rebels against. It is for his name and all that it means to 
him and his peers that he struggles to go on living and return to the 
world where it is known and honored. When, later, at the court of King 
Alcinous, he reveals his identity, he tells the banqueters, and us, not only 
his name but also the renown it carries. "I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, 
known to the world / for every kind of craft — my fame has reached the 
skies" (9.21-22). He speaks of his fame in an utterly objective manner, as 
if it were something apart from himself; his words are not a boast but a 
statement of the reputation, the qualities and achievements, to which he 
must be true. Once free of the Cyclops' cave, he insists, at great risk to 
himself and his ship, on telling the Cyclops who has blinded him: 
"Odysseus, / raider of cities, he gouged out your eye, / Laertes' son who 
makes his home in Ithaca!" (9.560-62). And this enables Polyphemus to 
invoke the wrath of his father, the sea god Poseidon, and ensure that 
Odysseus will "come home late / and come a broken man — all shipmates 
lost, / alone in a stranger's ship," to "find a world of pain at home" 
(9.592-95). 

With Odysseus' next port of call, however, it begins to look as if 
Polyphemus' prayer will remain unanswered. Aeolus, the keeper of the 
winds, is a generous host and sends his guest on a magical ride — the 
West Wind blowing steadily toward Ithaca and all the other winds 
imprisoned in a bag aboard his ship. In sight of home — "we could see 
men tending fires" (10.34) — Odysseus, who has been at the helm for the 
entire voyage, finally relaxes. But the deep sleep he falls into allows the 
crew, suspecting that the bag contains treasure, to open it and let loose 
the winds. As his ships are blown back into the unknown, Odysseus faces 
the first of his temptations — "should I leap over the side and drown at 
once?" (10.56) — but resolves to stay alive, even though the hurricane 
winds are hurrying his ships back to Aeolus, where his plea for further 
aid is indignantly rejected. His next encounter is with the gigantic canni- 
bals, the Laestrygonians, from whom he makes a narrow escape, but 
with the loss of all his other ships and crews. Circe's island confronts him 
with another danger, from which he escapes with the help of the god 



INTRODUCTION 



33 



Hermes, but then she turns into a temptation. Circe, after she has 
renounced her plan to change him and his crew into swine, becomes a 
perfect hostess, entertaining Odysseus in her bed and his crew at the 
banquet table. Odysseus, if not bewitched, is certainly charmed, for at 
the end of a whole year of dalliance he has to be reminded by his crew of 
his duty: "Captain, this is madness! / High time you thought of your own 
home at last" (10.520-21). Circe, unlike Calypso, is willing to release 
him, but tells him that he must first go down to the land of the dead to 
consult the ghost of the blind prophet Tiresias. 

Homer's picture of the lower world is of course the model for all later 
Western geographies of Hell, through Virgil's sixth book of the Aeneid to 
that greatest of all visions of the life to come, the Divina Commedia of 
Dante. Quite apart from the consultation with Tiresias, the visit has a 
special significance for Odysseus. All through the trials of his voyage 
home, the temptation to find release in death has always been at hand — 
by suicide, as in his despair off Ithaca, or, more subtly, at any moment of 
tension, by simply relaxing momentarily the constant vigilance, the 
quick suspicion, the inexhaustible resilience and determination, that 
keep him alive. Anyone who has been under a continual strain in action 
and especially in command knows the weariness that can tempt a man to 
neglect precautions, take the shortcut, let things go for once; it is a mood 
in which the death that may result seems for the moment almost pre- 
ferable to the unending bodily fatigue and mental strain. But when 
Odysseus sees for himself what it means to be dead, he loses any illusions 
he may have had that death is better than a life of unbroken tension and 
hardship. Homer's world of the dead is dark and comfortless; it is no 
place of rest and oblivion. The shades crowd round the sacrificed ani- 
mals, yearning for a draft of the blood that will for a moment bring them 
back to life, restore memory and the power of speech. Achilles reads the 
lesson to Odysseus, who had congratulated him on reigning like a king 
over the dead: 



"No winning words about death to me, shining Odysseus! 
By god, I'd rather slave on earth for another man — 
some dirt-poor tenant farmer who scrapes to keep alive — 
than rule down here over all the breathless dead." 



(11.555-58) 



The land of the dead has been hospitable, but perhaps Odysseus has 
overstayed his welcome, for as he waits to see still more shades of famous 
heroes, 



34 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



"... the dead came surging round me, 
hordes of them, thousands raising unearthly cries, 
and blanching terror gripped me ..." 



(11.723-25) 



He heads for his ship and returns to Circe, who proceeds to plot them "a 
course and chart each seamark" (12.28) for their voyage home. 

They have yet to face the Sirens, make a choice between Scylla and 
Charybdis, and land, against Circe's advice and Odysseus' opposition, on 
Thrinacia, the island where the crew will slaughter the cattle of the 
Sun and so seal their own fate. The Sirens are another temptation for 
Odysseus, perhaps the most powerful of all, for if he had not been bound 
to the mast, he would have gone to join the heaps of corpses that sur- 
round them. "Come closer, famous Odysseus," they sing. "We know all 
the pains that Achaeans and Trojans once endured / on the spreading 
plain of Troy" (12.200-6). Odysseus is a veteran of a ten-year war; he is on 
his way back to a society in which a new generation has grown up in 
peace. There will be no one to understand him if he talks about the war — 
it is significant that once home and recognized, he does not mention it to 
Telemachus or Penelope. Only those who shared its excitement and hor- 
rors with him can talk about it. That is perhaps why Menelaus says he 
would have given Odysseus an estate in his own lands if he had come 
home: "how often," he says, "we'd have mingled side-by-side! / Nothing 
could have parted us" (4.197-98). The bonds forged by fellowship in dan- 
gerous action and suffering are very strong. And that is the strength of the 
Sirens' appeal: "we know all the pains that Achaeans and Trojans once 
endured / on the spreading plain of Troy." He orders his sailors to untie 
him, let him go. But of course the Sirens' song is an invitation to live in the 
past, and that is a kind of death; the Sirens' island is piled with the bones 
of dead men. It was in the land of the dead that he could relive the saga of 
Troy, with his fellow-veterans Achilles and Agamemnon. Those days are 
over, and he must look forward to the future, not backward to the past. 

The choice between Scylla and Charybdis is still to be made, but 
Odysseus will have to face both — Scylla as a ship's captain on his way to 
Thrinacia, and Charybdis as a lone shipwrecked sailor clinging to a piece 
of wreckage on the way back. Rescued by the goddess Calypso (whose 
name is formed from the Greek word that means "cover," "hide"), 
Odysseus spends seven years a virtual prisoner on her island, "unwilling 
lover alongside lover all too willing" (5.172). He rejects her offer to make 
him immortal and ageless, her husband forever. Ordered by Hermes to 
let him go, she reminds him of the offer and foretells the trials and tribu- 
lations that still await him on the voyage home: 



INTRODUCTION 



35 



"... if you only knew, down deep, what pains 
are fated to fill your cup before you reach that shore, 
you'd stay right here, preside in our house with me 
and be immortal." 



(5.228-31) 



But he refuses. 

Calypso's offer and Odysseus' refusal are an exchange unique in 
Greek literature and mythology. Immortality was a divine preroga- 
tive, grudgingly conferred. Heracles had to die a fiery, agonizing death 
to win it, and when the Dawn goddess obtained it for her mortal 
lover Tithonus, she forgot to ask also that he should never grow old. 
Now as she sets out on her route every morning, she leaves him be- 
hind in bed, where he lies inert, shriveled with age. But Calypso has 
offered to make Odysseus "immortal, ageless, all his days" (5.151) and 
invited him to live with her in a paradisal environment so enchant- 
ing that 

. . . even a deathless god 
who came upon that place would gaze in wonder, 
heart entranced with pleasure (5.81-83) 

— a place before which Hermes, messenger of Zeus, "stood . . . spell- 
bound" (5.84). All this Odysseus rejects, though he knows that the alter- 
native is to entrust himself again, this time alone and on a makeshift 
craft, to that sea about which he has no illusions. "And if a god will 
wreck me yet again on the wine-dark sea," he says, 



"Much have I suffered, labored long and hard by now 
in the waves and wars. Add this to the total — 
bring the trial on!" 



(5.244^8) 



One more offer to forget his home and his identity is made and 
refused before he reaches Ithaca. In the land of the Phaeacians, where he 
is welcomed and honored, he is offered the hand in marriage of a young 
and charming princess and a life of ease and enjoyment in a Utopian 
society. The offer is made not only by the king her father — 



"... if only — 
seeing the man you are, seeing we think as one — 
you could wed my daughter and be my son-in-law 
and stay right here with us" 



(7.356-59) 



36 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



—but also, earlier, by the girl herself, in the subtle hints contained in her 
instructions to him about his approach to the city. She makes a final 
appeal to him as he goes to the banquet hall for the feast at which he will 
later identify himself and tell his story. She reminds him how much he 
owes her: 



"Farewell, my friend! And when you are at home, 
home in your own land, remember me at times. 
Mainly to me you owe the gift of life." 



(8.518-20) 



This is not quite the resigned farewell it sounds like. The word she uses 
for what Odysseus owes her — zoagria — is an Iliadic word: "the price of a 
life." Hephaestus uses it when Thetis comes to ask him to make new 
armor for Achilles; he will do anything for her, since she saved his life 
once — he owes her zoagria. Three times in the Iliad, Trojan warriors, dis- 
armed and at the mercy of the victor, use the verb from which this noun 
is formed to offer rich ransom in exchange for their lives. Nausicaa is 
pressing Odysseus hard, with a word he fully understands; he had heard 
his captive Dolon use it to him in an appeal for his life, which was 
refused (Iliad 10.442-43). But now, reminded of how much he owes her, 
he tactfully evades the issue by taking her request literally; when he 
reaches home, he will pray to her as a deathless goddess all his days. 

Loaded with treasure greater than all he had won at Troy and lost at 
sea, Odysseus, in a deep sleep, is transported in the magical Phaeacian 
ship to the real world and landed, still asleep, on the shore of Ithaca. 
When he wakes up, he does not recognize his own country, for Athena 
has cloaked the shore in a mist. Afraid that the Phaeacians have betrayed 
him, he repeats the agonized questions he has asked himself on so many 
strange shores — 



"... whose land have I lit on now? 
What are they here — violent, savage, lawless?- 
or friendly to strangers, god-fearing men?" 



(13.227-29) 



He has in fact reached the most dangerous of all his landfalls. To survive 
this last trial, he will have to call on all the qualities that mark him as a 
hero — the courage and martial skill of the warrior he was at Troy, but 
also the caution, cunning, duplicity and patience that have brought him 
safe to Ithaca. 



INTRODUCTION 



37 



HERO 

I hate that man like the very Gates of Death / who says one thing but 
hides another in his heart." These are the words of Achilles, the hero of 
the Iliad (9.378-79), the chevalier sans peur et sans reproche of the Greek 
aristocratic tradition. He addressed them to Odysseus, who had come as 
leader of a delegation charged by Agamemnon and the Achaean chief- 
tains to persuade Achilles to rejoin them in the attack on Troy. These are 
strange words with which to open an answer to what seems like a gen- 
erous offer of compensation for harsh words uttered in anger, but 
Achilles knows his man. Odysseus has told no lie, but he has concealed 
the truth. He has repeated verbatim the bulk of Agamemnon's mes- 
sage—the long list of splendid gifts, the offer of the hand of a daughter in 
marriage— but he has suppressed Agamemnon's reiterated claim to supe- 
riority, his relegation of Achilles to inferior rank. "Let him bow down to 
me! I am the greater king, / ... the greater man" (9.192-93). 

For Achilles a lie is something utterly abhorrent. But for Odysseus it is 
second nature, a point of pride. "I am Odysseus," he tells the Phaeacians 
when the time comes to reveal his identity, "known to the world / for 
every kind of craft" (9.21-22). The Greek word here translated "craft" is 
dobs. It is a word that can be used in praise as well as abuse. Athena uses 
the word when, in the guise of a handsome young shepherd, she compli- 
ments Odysseus on the complicated lie he has just told her about his 
identity and his past, and it is with this word that Odysseus describes the 
wooden horse he contrived to bring Troy down in flames. On the other 
hand, Athena, Menelaus and Odysseus use it of the trap Clytemnestra set 
for Agamemnon when he returned home, and it serves Homer as a 
description of the suitors' plan to ambush and kill Telemachus on his 
way back from Pylos. But whether complimentary or accusing, it always 
implies the presence of what Achilles so vehemently rejects— the inten- 
tion to deceive. 

Odysseus has the talent necessary for the deceiver: he is a persuasive 
speaker. In the Iliad the Trojan prince Antenor, who had listened to 
Odysseus when he came with an embassy to Troy, remembered the con- 
trast between his unimpressive appearance and the powerful magic of his 
speech. "When he let loose that great voice from his chest / . . . then no 
man alive could rival Odysseus!" (3.266-68). And in the Odyssey, in the 
palace of Alcinous, he holds his host spellbound with the story of his 
adventures. When he breaks off, pleading the lateness of the hour, Alci- 
nous begs him to go on: "what grace you give your words, and what 



38 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



good sense within! / You have told your story with all a singer's skill" 
(1 1.416-17). In his travels on the way to Phaeacia, Odysseus has not had 
much occasion to give rein to his eloquent persuasion; his skill in decep- 
tion will be needed and fully revealed only when at last he reaches the 
shore of Ithaca, where in order to survive he has to play the role of a 
penniless, ragged beggar. The tales he tells, to Athena, Eumaeus, Anti- 
nous, Penelope and Laertes are brilliant fictions, tales of war, piracy, 
murder, blood-feuds and peril on the high seas, with a cast of rogue 
Phoenician captains, Cretan adventurers and Egyptian Pharaohs. They 
are, as Homer says, "lies like truth," thoroughly convincing, true, unlike 
the tale he told in Phaeacia, to the realities of life and death in the 
Aegean world, but nonetheless lies from beginning to end. And Homer 
reminds us of the contrast between Odysseus and Achilles by making 
Odysseus, just before he launches out on a splendidly mendacious 
account of his background and misfortunes, repeat the famous words 
Achilles addressed to him at Troy. "I hate that man like the very Gates of 
Death who / . . . stoops to peddling lies" (14.182-83). 

The repetition of that memorable phrase makes the contrast between 
the two heroes explicit, but Odysseus is still, as he was in the Iliad, a war- 
rior faithful to the martial ideal. He will gladly employ deceit to win vic- 
tory, but if necessary he will confront mortal danger alone and unafraid. 
On Circe's island, when Eurylochus returns to report the disappearance 
of his companions inside the witch's palace and implores Odysseus not to 
go to their rescue but to set sail at once, he is met with a scornful refusal: 



"Eurylochus, stay right here, 
eating, drinking, safe by the black ship. 
I must be off. Necessity drives me on." 



(10.299-301) 



This necessity is his fidelity to that reputation, that fame among men, for 
which Achilles accepted an early death. This is the Odysseus of the Iliad, 
who, finding himself alone and outnumbered in a desperate struggle 
with the Trojans, rules out the thought of flight: 

"Cowards, I know, would quit the fighting now 

but the man who wants to make his mark in war 

must stand his ground . . ." <n. 483-85) 

Odysseus shares with Achilles another characteristic of the heroic 
mentality: a prickly sensitivity to what he regards as a lack of respect on 
the part of others, an irrepressible rage against any insult to his standing 



INTRODUCTION 



39 



as a hero. This was the motive of his near-fatal insistence on revealing his 
real name to Polyphemus: he could not bear the thought that the blinded 
giant would never know the identity or the fame of his conqueror. More 
cautious among the Phaeacians, he carefully remains anonymous but 
comes close to revealing the truth when, scorned by a young Phaeacian 
for his lack of athletic prowess, he hurls the discus a prodigious distance 
and then challenges them all— at boxing, wrestling, racing and archery. 
"Well I know," he tells them, 

"how to handle a fine polished bow . . . 
Philoctetes alone outshot me there at Troy 
when ranks of Achaean archers bent their bows." (8.246-51) 

The most painful insult to his honor is of course the conduct of the 
suitors; their three-year-long occupation of his house is an intolerable 
affront, compounded by their brutal treatment of him as he plays the 
role of Nobody once again. And their sublime confidence that even if he 
did return he would meet a humiliating death fighting against their supe- 
rior numbers stirs in him an Achillean wrath. When he finally kills An- 
tinous, the most violent of the suitors, and identifies himself at 
last — "You dogs! you never imagined I'd return from Troy" (22.36) — 
Eurymachus, the most deceitful of the suitors, offers full compensation 
and more for the damage they have done. Odysseus fiercely rejects it: 

"No, Eurymachus! Not if you paid me all your father's wealth — 
all you possess now, and all that could pour in from the world's end- 
no, not even then would I stay my hands from slaughter 
till all you suitors had paid for all your crimes!" (22.65-68) 

We have heard this note sounded before, in the voice of Achilles in the 
Iliad rejecting Agamemnon's peace offering: 

"Not if he gave me ten times as much, twenty times over, all 

he possesses now, and all that could pour in from the world's end — 

... no, not even then could Agamemnon 

bring my fighting spirit round until he pays me back, 

pays full measure for all his heartbreaking outrage!" (9.464-73) 



In the event, Achilles exacts full measure not from Agamemnon but 
from Hector, who has killed his friend Patroclus and now wears Achilles' 
armor. One after another he cuts down Trojan warriors, drives them into 



40 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



the river to drown or die under his merciless sword, until he meets and 
kills Hector, whose corpse he drags back to his camp, to lie there 
unburied while he sacrifices captured Trojans to appease the spirit of 
Patroclus dead. Odysseus' vindication of his honor is no less bloody and 
merciless. Backed by his son and two loyal servants, he kills all the one 
hundred and eight young aristocrats who have besieged his wife; his ser- 
vants savagely mutilate and kill the faithless shepherd Melanthius, who 
had insulted Odysseus; and Telemachus, ordered to dispatch the disloyal 
maids with his sword, chooses to deny them this "clean death" (22.488) 
and hangs them. All scores are paid. With interest. 

Achilles' revenge ends with a compassionate gesture, the return of 
Hector's body to his father, Priam, but at the end of the Odyssey more 
blood is spilled. Eupithes, Antinous' father, leads the suitors' relatives 
against Odysseus and his men, but is killed by Laertes when the battle is 
joined. "They would have killed them all," says Homer (24.581), if 
Athena had not ordered Odysseus back and allowed the Ithacans to run 
for their lives. The description of the final battle is phrased throughout in 
Iliadic phrase and formula, and as Odysseus encourages his son and 
receives assurance that Telemachus will not disgrace his lineage, old 
Laertes sounds the authentic heroic note: "What a day for me, dear gods! 
What joy— / my son and my grandson vying over courage!" (24.567-68). 

This aspect of the Odyssey has often been overlooked or underempha- 
sized. Much, perhaps too much, has been made of Achilles' bitter rejec- 
tion of Odysseus' attempt to comfort him in the world of the dead: "I'd 
rather slave on earth for another man— / . . . than rule down here over 
all the breathless dead" (1 1.556-58). His words have been interpreted as 
a rejection of the heroic code of which in the Iliad he was the great 
exemplar. But it is not so much a rejection of the everlasting glory for 
which he consciously and deliberately traded his life as it is an angry 
reproach to Odysseus for contrasting his own "endless trouble" (11.547) 
with Achilles' great power among the dead. Achilles knew what he was 
giving up when he chose an early death with glory over long life, and it 
is understandable that Odysseus' specious words of comfort should 
provoke an angry response. In any case, he goes on to ask for news of 
his son Neoptolemus: "Did he make his way to the wars, / did the 
boy become a champion— yes or no?" (11.560-61). When Achilles 
hears Odysseus' answer— "scores of men he killed in bloody combat. / 
How could I list them all . . . ?" (11.587-88)— and hears the tale of his 
aggressive courage in the wooden horse and his safe return home, 
Achilles goes off 



INTRODUCTION 



41 



"loping with long strides across the fields of asphodel, 
triumphant in all I had told him of his son, 
his gallant, glorious son." 



(11.614-16) 



GODS 

U nlike the Iliad, the Odyssey is an epic with a thoroughly domestic base. 
Except in the wanderings — and sometimes even there — we are down to 
earth, whether in the full and frequent meals in the palace (Fielding 
called the Odyssey the "eatingest epic") or in the rural domesticity of 
Eumaeus' hut. Yet the poem is firmly set in what might be called "heroic 
time," a time when men were stronger, braver and more eloquent than 
they are now, women more beautiful, powerful and intelligent than they 
have been ever since, and gods so close to human life and so involved 
with individual human beings, in affection or in anger, that they inter- 
vened in their lives and even appeared to them in person. The inclination 
of modern critics to emphasize the unique aspect of Odyssean heroism at 
the expense and often to the exclusion of the recognizably Achillean 
aspects of the heroic vengeance that concludes the epic is paralleled by a 
tendency to find new developments on Olympus, in the nature and 
action of the gods, especially of Zeus. What has happened— according to 
Alfred Heubeck in his thoughtful and valuable introduction to the 
Oxford Commentary on the Odyssey— is nothing less than an "ethical 
transformation": "With perceptiveness and wisdom Zeus now directs the 
fate of the world according to moral principles, which alone create and 
preserve order. The father of the gods has only a little way to go to 
become the just ruler of the world" (I, p. 23). 

Quite apart from the fact that it may be doubted whether Zeus ever 
went that little way (even in the Oresteia his justice is problematic), it is 
hard to find in the Odyssey evidence for this ethical transformation. In the 
meeting on Olympus with which the poem opens, Zeus discusses the 
case of Aegisthus, who, disregarding a warning delivered by Hermes, has 
seduced Clytemnestra and, with her help, murdered Agamemnon. "Ah 
how shameless," says Zeus, 



"the way these mortals blame the gods. 
From us alone, they say, come all their miseries, yes, 
but they themselves, with their own reckless ways, 
compound their pains beyond their proper share." 



(1.37^10) 



42 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



There is, as Heubeck himself points out, "nothing new in this moral- 
izing." Zeus admits that much of humanity's suffering is the responsi- 
bility of the gods; what he is complaining about is that they compound it 
by reckless initiatives of their own. 

This council on Olympus presents us with a situation all too familiar 
from the Iliad: gods bitterly opposed to each other over the fate of mor- 
tals. In the Iliad Hera and Athena are ferociously bent on Troy's destruc- 
tion because of an insult to their pride and preeminence— the Judgment 
of Paris, the Trojan prince, which awarded the prize for beauty to 
Aphrodite. Poseidon, brother of Zeus, is equally intent on Troy's destruc- 
tion, because the Trojan king Laomedon cheated him of payment for 
building the walls of Troy. Apollo, whose temple stands on the citadel of 
Troy, is the city's champion, and Zeus, the supreme arbiter, is partial to 
Troy because of the devotion of its inhabitants to his worship. The fate of 
the city and its women and children, as well as the lives and deaths of the 
warriors on both sides, are determined by the give-and-take of these 
divine wills in opposition, by the pattern of alliance, conflict, deceit and 
compromise that form their relationships. 

The conflicts rarely take violent shape; on the few occasions when 
they do, the divine opponents are not equally matched. Athena fights 
Ares and Aphrodite, and easily defeats both, while Hera spanks Artemis 
as if she were a little girl. But among the major powers— Zeus, Hera, 
Athena, Poseidon, Apollo— the struggle takes different forms: retreat, 
deceit, compromise. When, in the climactic battles that lead up to the 
death of Hector, Apollo is challenged to fight by Poseidon, he declines: 

"God of the earthquake — you'd think me hardly sane 

if I fought with you for the sake of wretched mortals . . . 

like leaves, no sooner flourishing, full of the sun's fire, 

feeding on earth's gifts, than they waste away and die." (21.527-30) 

Gods may favor a hero or a city, but if that favor threatens to create a 
rupture between major powers, one of them may withdraw. Or they 
may bargain, as Zeus does with Hera when he reluctantly consents to let 
Troy fall. He consents, but with a proviso: 



"One more thing . . . 

Whenever I am bent on tearing down some city 
filled with men you love — to please myself — 
never attempt to thwart my fury ..." 



(4.46-49) 



INTRODUCTION 



43 



And Hera accepts; in fact, she offers him three cities instead of one: 

"... The three cities that I love best of all 

are Argos and Sparta, Mycenae with streets as broad as Troy's. 

Raze them ... I will never rise in their defense . . ." (4.60-63) 

Gods may also get their way by deceit, as Hera does when she seduces 
Zeus and puts him to sleep so that she and Poseidon can rally the 
Achaeans against Hector's assault. 

All three of these modes of Olympian diplomacy reappear in the 
Odyssey. Odysseus, by blinding Polyphemus, Poseidon's son, has incurred 
the vengeful wrath of the god who rules the waves. When the hero 
meets Athena on the shore of Ithaca he asks her rather brusquely why 
she had abandoned him during the course of his wanderings: 



"... I never saw you, 
never glimpsed you striding along my decks 
to ward off some disaster." 



(13.361-63) 



Her reply, short, obviously embarrassed, and sandwiched between ful- 
some compliments and the lifting of the mist to show Odysseus that he 
really is home, is an avowal of concession made to superior force. "I 
could not bring myself," she says, "to fight my Father's brother, / 
Poseidon" (13.388-89). And even this apology is evasive: she makes no 
attempt to explain why she did not help Odysseus before he incurred 
Poseidon's wrath. Not until she secures the agreement of Zeus does she 
take the steps that lead to Odysseus' return home. She proposes to Zeus 
that Odysseus be released from his seven-year confinement on Calypso's 
island, and she does this at a meeting on Olympus from which Poseidon 
is absent; he is far away, at the ends of the earth, enjoying the homage of 
the Ethiopians. Poseidon is, in effect, deceived; when he returns and sees 
Odysseus on his raft approaching the Phaeacian shore he is furious. 
"Outrageous! Look how the gods have changed their minds 
Odysseus — while I was off with my Ethiopians" (5.315-16). 
would not challenge him openly; she acts behind his back. 

Poseidon knows that once Odysseus reaches Phaeacia he is 
escape his noose of pain" (5.318), and in the event, the Phaeacians send 
him home on a supernaturally fast ship, loaded down with treasure 
greater than all he had acquired at Troy and lost at sea. Poseidon's power 
has been defied, his honor slighted, and someone must pay. Odysseus is 



/ about 
Athena 

"fated to 



44 homer: the odyssey 

now beyond his reach, but the Phaeacians are another matter. "I will lose 
all my honor now / among the immortals/' he complains to Zeus, 

"now there are mortal men 
who show me no respect — Phaeacians, too, 
born of my own loins ! " ( \ 3 1 45^8) 

Zeus assures him that there is no loss of respect for him on Olympus, and 
as for mortal men — 



"If any man, so lost in his strength 
and prowess, pays you no respect—just pay him back . . 
Do what you like. Whatever warms your heart." 



(13.162-65) 



Poseidon explains his purpose: to sink the Phaeacian ship that took 
Odysseus home as it sails into the harbor and to "pile a huge mountain 
round about their port" so that "They will learn at last / to cease and 
desist from escorting every man alive" (13.171-73). Zeus approves, and 
suggests a refinement: to change the ship and, incidentally, its crew of 
fifty-two young men— "the best in town" (8.42)— into a rock as the 
Phaeacians watch it approach the harbor. Poseidon swiftly does so, and 
at that sight King Alcinous recognizes the fulfillment of a prophecy, 
which also predicted that the city would be surrounded by a great moun- 
tain. He leads his people in sacrifice and prayer to Poseidon, hoping for 
mercy and promising that the Phaeacians will never again give sea pas- 
sage to men who come to their city. 

This is the end of the great Phaeacian tradition of hospitality and help 
for the stranger and wayfarer. This action of Zeus casts a disturbing light 
on the relation between human ideals and divine conduct. If there is one 
stable moral criterion in the world of the Odyssey, it is the care taken by 
the powerful and well-to-do of strangers, wanderers and beggars. This 
code of hospitality is the one universally recognized morality. And its 
divine enforcer, so all mortals believe, is Zeus himself, Zeus xeinios, pro- 
tector of stranger and suppliant. His name and title are invoked time after 
time, by Odysseus and also by Nausicaa, Echeneus the Phaeacian elder, 
Alcinous and Eumaeus. 

Of all the many hosts measured by this moral standard, the Phaea- 
cians stand out as the most generous, not only in their regal entertain- 
ment of Odysseus but also in their speedy conveyance of the hero to his 
own home, a service they provide for all wayfarers who reach their 
shore. And now they are punished by the gods for precisely this reason, 



INTRODUCTION 



45 



since their magnanimity has made Poseidon feel that his honor— the 
touchy sensitivity to public opinion that in Achilles brought ten thousand 
woes on the Achaeans, and drove Ajax to suicide and fueled his sullen- 
n ess in the underworld— has been dealt an intolerable blow. The 
offenders must be punished, even if their punishment displays utter 
indifference to the only code of moral conduct that obtains in the inse- 
cure world of the Odyssey. Faced with Poseidon's rage against the Phaea- 
cians, Zeus the protector of strangers enthusiastically joins his powerful 
brother in his denunciation. Not only does he suggest the refinement of 
turning the ship to stone; he also approves of Poseidon's intention to cut 
the Phaeacians off from the sea forever by piling a huge mountain 
around the city. 

This has shocked some modern translators and editors, who have 
accordingly followed the lead of the ancient editor Aristophanes of 
Byzantium. By changing three letters in the Greek, he made Zeus end his 
speech with the words "but do not pile a mountain round the city." The 
suggested petrification of the ship is a sop to gratify Poseidon and com- 
pensate him for a concession — the Phaeacians will not be cut off from the 
sea. Zeus xeinios lives up to his title; he is a Zeus who has undergone an 
ethical transformation. 

We have no record of the reasons Aristophanes gave for his reading; 
though they must have been spelled out in his commentaries on the 
poem, our manuscript tradition preserves only the fact that he proposed 
it. But it does give us one more important piece of information. 
"Aristarchus," we are told in the same note that recorded Aristo- 
phanes' emendation, "argues against him in his dissertations." Aris- 
tarchus was the pupil of Aristophanes and was regarded as the most 
critical and correct of the Alexandrian editors — readers of Pope's Dunciad 
will remember that his target Richard Bentley was portrayed as "that 
awful Aristarch." So the suggestion was already contested in antiquity by 
Homer's most respected editor. And though we are told nothing about 
Aristophanes' reasons for suggesting the change, we may guess at them 
by comparing other examples of his textual criticism. He was much con- 
cerned, for example, with decorum and suspected the authenticity of 
lines in which royal characters fell below the level of etiquette main- 
tained at the court of the Ptolemies. In Book 6, where Homer has Nau- 
sicaa bring her washing out of the house — "the princess brought her 
finery from the room / and piled it into the wagon's polished cradle" 
(6.84-85) — Aristophanes, with a slight alteration, produced: "Meanwhile 
the maids brought the finery from the room . . ." Princesses do not carry 
their own laundry. 



46 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



He shows a similar concern for propriety when dealing with the con- 
duct of the gods. In Book 11, when Odysseus sees the shade of Ariadne, 
he identifies her as 

"daughter of Minos, that harsh king. One day Theseus tried 

to spirit her off from Crete to Athens' sacred heights, 

but he got no joy from her. Artemis killed her first 

on wave-washed Dia's shores . . ." (ii. 365-68) 

For ekta, "killed," Aristophanes adopted eschen, "detained," thus unbur- 
dening Artemis of a killing for which no reason is given. So in that 
dialogue between Zeus and Poseidon, by introducing a negative, Aristo- 
phanes made Zeus, the greater god, more merciful than Poseidon. 

But there is no warrant for this alteration. There is indeed a very 
good reason— quite apart from the fact that Aristophanes' motive is 
obvious— to reject it out of hand. If Homer's Zeus had really urged such 
a radical revision of Poseidon's plan, some sort of reply on Poseidon's 
part— acceptance, rejection or at least acknowledgment— would be in- 
dispensable. But he says not a word. Furthermore, if the Phaeacian city 
was never to be cut off by a mountain, we are left with something 
unprecedented in Homer, an unfulfilled prophecy — Alcinous twice men- 
tions the prophecy of his father that one day Poseidon would ring their 
city with a mountain. Homer does not tell us what happened: when we 
see the Phaeacians for the last time, they are about to engage in sacrifice 
and prayer to Poseidon, hoping that he will spare them. But one thing 
is clear: they are done with generous hospitality and conveying strang- 
ers to their destinations. A god has forced this decision; his vindictive 
punishment has been fully approved by Zeus. Zeus may sometimes act 
as the protector of suppliants, beggars and wanderers, but human con- 
cerns and conceptions of justice fade into insignificance when the 
maintenance of a powerful god's prestige is the issue. Odysseus mean- 
while, left asleep on the Ithacan shore with all his treasure laid out beside 
him, wakes to find a landscape he does not recognize— Athena has cov- 
ered it in mist. He jumps to the conclusion that the Phaeacian crew has 
dumped him on some foreign shore. "They never kept their word," he 
cries, 



"Zeus of the Suppliants 
pay them back — he keeps an eye on the world of men 
and punishes all transgressors!" 



(13.241^13) 



INTRODUCTION 



47 



He does not realize it, but Zeus of the suppliants has already paid them 
back. Not for breaking their word, but for keeping it. 

Poseidon and Zeus are not the only Olympians to display indiffer- 
ence to human codes of conduct and sense of justice. Later in the 
poem Athena joins them. There is among the suitors one decent man, 
Amphinomus, who "pleased Penelope the most, / thanks to his timely 
words and good clear sense" (16.441-42). It is he who persuades the 
suitors to reject Antinous' proposal to waylay and murder Telemachus 
on Ithaca, now that he has evaded the ship waiting for him in ambush 
and returned safe home. And it is Amphinomus who, after Odysseus' 
victory over Irus in the boxing match, drinks his health in a golden cup 
and says, 



"Cheers, old friend, old father, 

saddled now as you are with so much trouble — 

here's to your luck, great days from this day on!" 



(18.141^3) 



Odysseus tries to save him from the imminent slaughter. He warns 
him solemnly that Odysseus will soon return, is now very near home, 
and that blood will be shed. This is dangerous ground. He calls Am- 
phinomus by name; how could this ragged beggar who has just ar- 
rived know it? He goes even further. "You seem like a man of good 
sense to me," he tells him. "Just like your father." It is a slip he tries 
to cover at once, adding quickly, "at least I've heard his praises" 
(18.145-46). Homer has made it clear what a great risk Odysseus is 
running in his attempt to save Amphinomus' life, and he emphasizes his 
sincerity by having him pray for divine intervention on the suitor's 
behalf: 



"... may some power save you, 
spirit you home before you meet him face-to-face 
the moment he returns to native ground!" 



(18.167-69) 



Far from spiriting him home, a divine power has already passed sentence 
on him: "Even then Athena had bound him fast to death / at the hands 
of Prince Telemachus and his spear" (18.178-79). Amphinomus is the 
third of the suitors to die, immediately after the two principal villains, 
Antinous and Eurymachus. 

When they are not deciding the fate of mortals, the gods live a life of 
their own, on Olympus, where, they say, 



48 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



. . . the gods' eternal mansion stands unmoved, 
never rocked by galewinds, never drenched by rains, 
nor do the drifting snows assail it, no, the clear air 
stretches away without a cloud, and a great radiance 
plays across that world where the blithe gods 
live all their days in bliss. 



(6.46-51) 



We are given a sample of their life of pleasure in one of the tales told by 
the minstrel Demodocus in the great hall of the Phaeacian palace— the 
entrapment of the adulterous pair Ares and Aphrodite in the golden net 
fashioned by the wronged husband Hephaestus, and their exposure to 
the prurient gaze and "uncontrollable laughter" (8.369) of the gods 
whom Hephaestus has summoned to witness his wife's perfidy. (The 
goddesses, we are told, stayed modestly at home.) Hephaestus himself, 
when he summons the gods, refers to the spectacle he offers them as "a 
sight to make you laugh" (8.349), and the comic aspect of the tale is 
made plain when Apollo asks Hermes if he would like to change places 
with Ares and receives the reply: 

"Oh Apollo, if only! . . . 

. . . bind me down with triple those endless chains! 

Let all you gods look on, and all you goddesses too — 

how I'd love to bed that golden Aphrodite!" (8.381-84) 

This glimpse of the private lives of the Olympians has a parallel in the 
Iliad: the episode (14.187-421) in which Hera, armed with all the charms 
and magic of Aphrodite, seduces Zeus, who is watching the battle from a 
mountaintop, so that she can put him to sleep and then, with Poseidon, 
rally the Achaean fighters against Hector's victorious assault. Zeus is 
overcome with desire for his wife; his lust, he tells her, is greater than 
anything he has felt in his mating with mortal women, whom he pro- 
ceeds to list in a long speech that has been aptly named the "Leporello 
catalogue," after the famous aria in Mozart's Don Giovanni. 

In both epics the gods enjoy their pleasures and pursue their intrigues 
on Olympus, while on earth they decide the fate of mortals and their 
cities with scant regard for human conceptions of divine justice, when- 
ever what is at stake is the interest or prestige of a major god. Human 
beings may indeed, like the suitors and Odysseus' crew, bring disaster on 
themselves "beyond their proper share" (1.40), but disaster may still 
come to those who, like the Phaeacians and Amphinomus, are by human 



INTRODUCTION 49 

standards admirable, and in each case it is a god who serves them their 
"proper share." 



WOMEN AND MEN 

The two Homeric epics are alike in their vision of the Olympian gods 
and their affirmation of the heroic code, but there is one striking differ- 
ence between them. The Iliad celebrates the action and suffering of men 
at war; it is only in the poem's similes and on the shield of Achilles that 
we are given occasional glimpses of a world at peace. The few women 
who make an appearance— Briseis, Andromache, Hecuba, Helen— are 
secondary figures, who play no significant part in the main action. But 
the Odyssey, though its climax is a scene of furious combat and mass 
slaughter, presents us with a world at peace: a secure and settled peace 
at Pylos and Sparta, a troubled and threatened peace on Ithaca, and, in 
the dangers and temptations of Odysseus' voyage, intervals of peace— 
temptingly restful with Circe, oppressive with Calypso, and beneficent on 
Scheria. And almost everywhere in this peaceful world, women, human 
and divine, have important roles. 

In Odysseus' wanderings they help, tempt or delay him. Calypso offers 
him immortality and keeps him for seven years but sends a favoring 
wind when he departs; Circe tries to keep him forever in her pigpen, 
does keep him for a year as her lover, but finally helps him on his way; 
the Sirens are his most dangerous temptation, but the sea-nymph Ino 
helps him land on Scheria, where Arete and Nausicaa smooth his path. 
There are female presences even among the monsters he has to face: 
Scylla, Charybdis and the gigantic wife— "huge as a mountain crag" 
(10.124)— of the Laestrygonian cannibal king. On the Egyptian island of 
Pharos, Menelaus is rescued by the minor goddess Eidothea, daughter of 
the Old Man of the Sea, and at Sparta, Helen gives a dazzling perfor- 
mance. On Ithaca, Penelope, enigmatic to the last, is the object of the 
suitors' desires and her son's suspicions, and it is she who precipitates 
the final crisis by offering to marry whichever of the suitors can string 
the bow of Odysseus and shoot an arrow through the axes. Eurycleia too 
is never far from the limelight and gets full exposure when she washes 
her master's feet and recognizes the scar he carries on his thigh. Mean- 
while the goddess Athena encourages and supports Telemachus on his 
journey, and from Scheria onward she is Odysseus' helper and then 
fellow-conspirator in deceit and ally in battle. Besides these principal 



50 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



players there is a plentiful cast of female extras: the Sicilian woman who 
looks after old Laertes; the Phoenician nursemaid who kidnaps the 
young prince Eumaeus to sell him as a slave; Eurynome, Penelope's 
housekeeper; Melantho, the disloyal maid, lover of Antinous; Iphthime, 
Penelope's sister, who appears to her in a dream; and the long list 
of famous women Odysseus sees among the dead— Tyro, Antiope, 
Alcmena, Epicaste, Chloris, Leda, Iphimedeia, Phaedra, Procris, Eriphyle. 
It is a vision that has echoed down the centuries, that lies behind Proper- 
tius' magical line sunt apud infernos tot milia formosarum— 'so many thou- 
sands of lovely women among the dead"— and Campion's "shades of 
underground . . . White lope, blithe Helen, and the rest." 

Only when the Odyssey turns Iliadic, as Odysseus and his son and two 
loyal servants face the suitors in the hall, are women offstage, and even 
there Athena is at hand, sustaining the morale of the hero and his party, 
diverting the suitors' spears from the target. Elsewhere in the poem 
women's voices are heard at frequent intervals and sometimes at length. 
Hostile critics might well be tempted to cite the defense of his tragedies 
Aristophanes put in the mouth of "Euripides" in the Frogs: "They all 
stepped up to speak their piece, the mistress spoke, the slave spoke too, / 
the master spoke, the daughter spoke, and grandma spoke." In the Iliad, 
scenes that present men in contact with women, though memorable, are 
rare— Helen and Paris, Hector and Andromache, Hecuba and Priam— but 
in the Odyssey, the rare exception is the scene from which women are 
excluded— the battle in the hall, the Cyclops in the cave. What historical 
reality, if any, lies behind this imagined world, so far removed from the 
peasant misogyny of Hesiod's near-contemporary Works and Days, we 
shall never know; perhaps it reflects an aristocratic Ionian culture like 
that which, a century later, saw the birth of Sappho on Lesbos. 

The Odyssey owes much of its power to enchant so many generations of 
readers to its elegant exploitation of something that war temporarily sup- 
presses or corrupts— the infinite variety of the emotional traffic between 
male and female. In his treatment of these relationships Homer displays 
an understanding of human psychology that many critics, especially 
those who believe in multiple authorship, but even some of those who 
accept a sole author yet deny him literacy, have been reluctant to recog- 
nize. A case in point is the first encounter between human beings of the 
opposite sex in the poem, the exchange between Telemachus and Pene- 
lope in Book 1. She has just told the bard Phemius, who is entertaining 
the suitors with a song about the return of the Achaeans from Troy, to 
change his tune, since this one pains her to the heart. Telemachus inter- 
venes, to remind her that Phemius is not to blame for her sorrow; it is 



INTRODUCTION 



51 



Zeus who allots to mortals whatever destiny he pleases. But he concludes 
with some words that have rightly been characterized as "harsh": 

"... mother, 
go back to your quarters. Tend to your own tasks, 
the distaff and the loom, and keep the women 
working hard as well. As for giving orders, 
men will see to that ..." ( 1.409-1 3) 

These same words, with "bow" replacing "giving orders" (muthon), recur 
much later in the poem, in Book 21 (389-93), where Penelope insists, in 
opposition to Antinous, that Eumaeus should give the bow to Odysseus; 
and of course they are an echo of Hector's words to Andromache in their 
last interview in the Iliad— "As for the fighting, / men will see to that" 
(6.587-88). In Book 21 Telemachus' words are obviously essential, for 
Penelope has to be removed from the hall before the fighting starts, as it 
will do as soon as Odysseus strings the bow. But critics have thought 
them out of place in Book 1; in fact, Aristarchus condemned them as an 
interpolation. Some modern translators (Fitzgerald, for example) have 
omitted them, and a recent commentator has expressed uneasiness about 
Telemachus' "callousness" and "adolescent rudeness." The lines have 
often been defended as the first manifestation of the new fighting spirit 
that Athena's visit has instilled in Telemachus, and though this is true, 
the fact is that his harshness here is consistent with the tone of nearly all 
the other remarks Telemachus addresses to his mother throughout the 
poem and of much of what he says about her to other people. 

His first reference to her is, at the very least, ambiguous. Asked by 
Athena if he is the son of Odysseus, he replies: "Mother has always told 
me I'm his son, it's true, / but I am not so certain" (1.249-50). Commen- 
tators have tried to explain his remark away as "curious but perhaps con- 
ventional" and "an idea that must already have been a commonplace," 
but they produce little or no evidence for such a case. Telemachus is not, 
of course, suggesting that his mother is an adulteress but merely 
expressing a doubt that he is a worthy son of his great father. But he 
could have done so without mentioning his mother; there is a resentful 
tone in his voice, which sounds again when he describes for Athena the 
situation he faces in Ithaca: 



"she neither rejects a marriage she despises 

nor can she bear to bring the courting to an end — 

while they continue to bleed my household white." 



(1.290-92) 



52 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



Telemachus has grown to manhood without the correction and sup- 
port of a father, an absence poignantly evoked in the words he addresses 
to Athena when, in the person of Mentes, she urges him to call an 
assembly, defy the suitors and take ship in search of news of his father. 
"You've counseled me with so much kindness now, / like a father to a 
son" (1.353-54). He has been raised by women, Eurycleia and Penelope, 
and it was almost inevitable that his normal adolescent rebellion would 
be against his mother. The first result of Athena's move to rouse 
Odysseus' son "to a braver pitch, inspire his heart with courage" (1.105) 
is this stern dismissal of his mother as he asserts his mastery in the house. 
Penelope has given orders to Phemius: to "break off this song" (1.391) 
and choose some other theme. "As for giving orders" {muthon), says 
Telemachus, "men will see to that." And as soon as she leaves, he 
announces that he will call an assembly where he will give his "orders" 
{muthon) to the suitors: "You must leave my palace! See to your feasting 
elsewhere" (1.430). 

Much later, at Sparta, Athena comes to hasten his return to Ithaca; 
she does so by suggesting that Penelope may decide to marry, and take 
some treasure with her: 



"You know how the heart of a woman always works: 
she likes to build the wealth of her new groom — 
of the sons she bore, of her dear, departed husband, 
not a memory of the dead, no questions asked." 



(15.23-26) 



Athena is not a dream, for Telemachus is awake; she is not in disguise, as 
she was on Ithaca. But Telemachus makes no reply to the goddess, no 
acknowledgment of her presence — it is as if he had never seen or heard 
her. This unusual treatment of a divine epiphany may have been 
Homer's attempt to suggest that Athena was only enhancing in 
Telemachus' mind the fears and suspicions that were already there. He 
had, as Homer tells us, been sleepless all night, "tossing with anxious 
thoughts about his father" (15.9). And when he gets back to Ithaca the 
first thing he says to Eumaeus shows how deeply rooted are his suspi- 
cions of his mother's intentions. "I've come," he says, 



"... [to] learn the news — 
whether mother still holds out in the halls 
or some other man has married her at last, 
and Odysseus' bed, I suppose, is lying empty, 
blanketed now with filthy cobwebs." 



(16.36-40) 



INTRODUCTION 



53 



At his meeting with Penelope, who weeps as she speaks of her fears 
that he would never return alive — she knew about the ship the suitors 
had sent out to waylay him — he is brusquely ungracious; he does not 
even answer her questions about news of Odysseus but tells her not to 
stir up his emotions and sends her off to her room to bathe and pray; he 
has business to attend to, men's business. She has to ask him later, and 
hesitantly, before he tells her what he learned at Sparta about her 
husband. 

But she is not always so submissive. When she comes into the great 
hall after Odysseus has won his fight with Irus, she rebukes her son for 
exposing a stranger-guest to the risk of bodily harm. In her speech we 
can hear the tone of maternal reproof that Telemachus must often have 
heard and resented in his boyhood and adolescence: 



"Telemachus, 
your sense of balance is not what it used to be. 
When you were a boy you had much better judgment. 
Now that you've grown and reached your young prime . . 
now your sense of fairness seems to fail you." 



(18.243-49) 



Telemachus' reply is, for once, conciliatory, even apologetic. He no longer 
feels the need to assert himself against her; his father is home, and he has 
been assigned a principal role in the final reckoning with the suitors. But 
he can still speak unflatteringly of her behind her back, as he does to 
Eurycleia after the nightlong interview between husband and wife: 



"Dear nurse, how did you treat the stranger in our house? 
With bed and board? Or leave him to lie untended? 
That would be mother's way — sensible as she is — 
all impulse, doting over some worthless stranger, 
turning a good man out to face the worst." 



(20.145-49) 



And he rebukes her to her face when she stubbornly refuses to recognize 
the bloodstained ragged beggar sitting opposite her as Odysseus. "Oh 
mother," he says, 



"cruel mother, you with your hard heart! 
Why do you spurn my father so — why don't you 
sit beside him, engage him, ask him questions? 
What other wife could have a spirit so unbending? 
your heart was always harder than a rock!" 



(23.111-18) 



54 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



Penelope answers him gently but firmly; she denies him any competence 
in the matter at hand: ". . . if he is truly / Odysseus ... we two will know 
each other ... we two have secret signs" (23.121-24). And Odysseus, 
with a smile, sends Telemachus away. 

Penelope's attitude to both the suitors and her disguised husband has 
given rise to much controversy and diverse interpretation. That she is 
faithful to Odysseus we are assured several times, as Odysseus is assured 
by Anticleia and Agamemnon in the world of the dead and by Eumaeus 
in the land of the living. On this score even Telemachus can have no 
doubt. It is also clear that she has done everything she can to avoid the 
marriage the suitors are trying to force on her. In his indictment of her 
before the Ithacan assembly, Antinous pays reluctant tribute to the sub- 
tlety of her delaying tactics — the shroud for old Laertes that for three 
years she wove at her great loom by day and unraveled by torchlight at 
night. Yet though her resolve to avoid marriage is firm, she would not 
be human if she did not feel flattered by the suitors' infatuation with 
her; a woman whose husband has been away for twenty years, and for 
whose return she has almost given up hope, could hardly remain indif- 
ferent to the ardent courtship of so many young princes. When, in Book 
18, Athena inspires her with a longing "to display herself to her suitors, 
fan their hearts, / inflame them more" (18.183-84), she is prompting 
impulses that lurk dormant below the surface of Penelope's conscious 
mind, just as she played on Telemachus' deep suspicions of his mother's 
intentions in Book 15. That same hidden layer of Penelope's emotions is 
revealed in the dream about the pet geese slaughtered by the eagle, 
which she describes for Odysseus. In the dream the eagle identifies him- 
self as Odysseus and the geese as the suitors, but not before Penelope has 
spoken of her delight in watching the geese and her unbridled sorrow at 
their destruction. In these few lines Homer shows more understanding of 
how dreams work than is to be found anywhere in the four books of the 
Interpretation of Dreams written by Artemidorus of Daldis in the second 
century of the Christian era. 

None of these feelings affects Penelope's refusal to choose a husband 
from among the suitors, but during her long interview with Odysseus she 
suddenly tells him that she has decided to do so: she will marry the suitor 
who can string the great bow of Odysseus and shoot an arrow through 
the twelve axes lined up in a row. There are good reasons for yielding to 
the suitors' pressure at this point, and she states them clearly. After the 
betrayal of her delaying tactics with the shroud, she can think, she says, 
of no further expedient. Her parents are pressing her to remarry, and her 
son broods impatiently as the suitors devour his inheritance; he too, she 



INTRODUCTION 



55 



says, beseeches her to leave. She has previously told Eurymachus what 
Odysseus had said to her when he left for Troy: 

" '. . . once you see the beard on the boy's cheek, 

you wed the man you like, and leave your house behind.' 

So my husband advised me then. Now it all comes true . . ." (18. 303-5) 



For the plot of the Odyssey, of course, her decision is the turning point, 
the move that makes possible the long-predicted triumph of the re- 
turning hero. But why, critics have asked, does she make up her mind to 
do it now, when her dream clearly announces the return of Odysseus 
and the slaughter of the suitors, when the disguised Odysseus has con- 
vinced her that he saw Odysseus in person long ago on Crete and assured 
her that Odysseus had lately been seen in nearby Thesprotia and was 
now on his way home; when, even earlier, the prophet Theoclymenus 
had assured her that Odysseus was actually in Ithaca, planning destruc- 
tion for the suitors? Many critics have found her decision utterly implau- 
sible. "The poet," writes one learned and influential scholar (Page, 
p. 123), "could not possibly have chosen a worse moment for Penelope's 
surrender." For those who suspect multiple authorship of the poem a 
simple explanation lies ready to hand: Penelope's decision comes from 
an alternate story line, in which husband and wife join in conspiracy to 
entrap the suitors. They find support for the theory in Book 24, where 
the shade of the suitor Amphimedon tells Agamemnon that it was 
Odysseus, "the soul of cunning," who "told his wife to set / the great bow 
and the gleaming iron axes out" (24.184-85). But it was only natural 
that the suitors should think so, since Penelope, at a critical moment, had 
argued strongly against Antinous that Odysseus should be allowed to try 
his hand at stringing the bow. 

One modern critic (Harsh) has developed a subtly argued theory that 
she does in fact recognize her husband in the course of their long night 
interview and, while forwarding his purpose, withholds from him her 
realization of his identity. This reading, however, runs into an immov- 
able obstacle in Book 23, where, to Telemachus' disgust and Odysseus' 
frustration, she refuses to recognize him as her husband and tests his 
knowledge of those "secret signs" she had mentioned before, signs 
"known to us both but hidden from the world" (23.124-25). Other critics 
have suggested that without recognizing the stranger's identity, she has 
been profoundly impressed by him and deeply moved by his proof that, 
unlike so many others who have come to her with sightings of Odysseus, 
he really has seen her husband. The disguised Odysseus, in the words of 



56 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



a recent sensitive interpreter (Russo, Commentary, III, pp. 11-12), "has 
come to mean much more to Penelope than would normally be possible 
in a relationship between a famous queen and a wandering stranger . . . 
an unusual and almost improper intimacy." When they go off to their 
separate beds, each dreams of the other. "Homer is showing us that 
Penelope has some kind of intuitive awareness of her husband's presence 
but ... it is active on a less than conscious level." All this prompts her "to 
take a risk, to commit herself to life and to life's chances after years of 
defensive, calculated maneuvering." 

This is a brilliant and attractive reading, but like many other inter- 
pretations, it does not take full account of the fact that Penelope does 
not have a choice in the matter. She has eloquently stated the reasons 
why she must decide now — pressure from her parents and her son, 
compounded by the threat to her son's life, demand a decision at this 
point. But what she proposes is not a "surrender." What the suitors have 
been demanding is that Penelope, or her father, choose one of them 
for her husband, "the best man in Achaea," the one "who offers her 
the most [gifts]" (16.85-86). But she faces them with something quite 
different: a challenge, a test in which each of them must measure him- 
self against Odysseus by stringing his bow and shooting an arrow 
through the twelve axes. She is, of course, running a risk. As she tells 
Odysseus of her decision, she speaks as if the outcome will be the mar- 
riage she has so long avoided, and later, in her bed, she prays for death to 
save her from having to "warm the heart of a weaker man" (20.92). Yet 
she must have foreseen the possibility that none of these inferior men, 
youths who spend their days and nights feasting, playing board games, 
dancing, hurling javelin and discus, would have the strength to string the 
bow of Odysseus and the skill to shoot an arrow through the line of 
twelve axes. Antinous, in fact, though he secretly hopes to succeed, 
expresses a fear that they may all fail to pass the test Penelope has 
imposed on them: 



"No easy game, I wager, to string his polished bow. 
Not a soul in the crowd can match Odysseus — 
what a man he was ..." 



(21.105-7) 



Failure on the part of all the suitors might free her from their attentions; 
both Leodes and Eurymachus, the two suitors who try their hand and 
fail, speak of wooing other women elsewhere. In any case, failure would, 
as Eurymachus says, demonstrate their inferiority to Odysseus — "A dis- 
grace to ring in the ears of men to come" (21.285). It would be a fatal 



INTRODUCTION 



57 



blow to the suitors' prestige and might well turn opinion in Ithaca 
against them. Penelope's surprising move looks more like a counter- 
offensive than a surrender. She told Odysseus that after her work on 
Laertes' shroud was exposed as a fraud, she could not think of another 
"deft way out" (19.177). The word so translated is metis; it is the word 
that characterizes Odysseus — he is polumetis, a man of many twists and 
turns. Penelope is from the same mold as her husband, a worthy 
partner — and adversary. As she demonstrates by the metis she deploys 
against him before she will accept him fully as her husband. 

Even when he has bathed, exchanged the filthy rags of the beggar for 
splendid raiment, and been given the grace and beauty of an immortal by 
Athena, she still sits apart from him, silent. He reproaches her for her cold- 
ness, using words that recall what Telemachus said to her earlier: "She has 
a heart of iron in her breast" (23.192). He orders Eurycleia to prepare a bed 
for him, apart and alone. Penelope's response shows that she is almost con- 
vinced: "You look— how well I know — " she says, "the way he looked, / 
setting sail from Ithaca" (23.195-96), but nonetheless she insists on testing 
his knowledge of those "secret signs" she mentioned when she answered 
Telemachus' angry outburst. She orders Eurycleia to move Odysseus' bed 
out of the room. For the first and only time in the poem, Odysseus is taken 
aback. Up to this point he has always been the calculator, the manipulator, 
the dissembler, who played on the emotions of others, whether to win 
sympathy or to provoke hostility, but now Penelope has usurped that role. 
In a furious emotional outburst — "Woman — your words, they cut me to 
the core!" (23.205) — he tells the story of the bed's construction, and even 
though he realizes that he has given her the sign that she was seeking, he 
ends nevertheless with an accusing speculation: 



"Does the bed, my lady, still stand planted firm?- 
I don't know — or has someone chopped away 
that olive-trunk and hauled our bedstead off?" 



(23.228-30) 



Penelope is convinced at last; in tears of joy she embraces him as she 
explains her hesitation. "In my heart of hearts I always cringed with fear 
/ some fraud might come, beguile me with his talk" (23.242-43). Homer 
and his audience had not heard of Martin Guerre, but they knew the 
story of Alcmena and Amphitryon (both mentioned in the Odyssey) — 
how Zeus assumed the appearance and personality of Amphitryon, who 
was away at the wars, to lie with Alcmena and beget Heracles. In the 
lower world, Odysseus hears a similar story from Tyro, deceived by 
Poseidon, who took the form of her lover, the river Enipeus. Penelope, in 



58 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



fact, when Eurycleia brought her the news that the stranger was 
Odysseus and that he had killed all the suitors, had replied, "the story 
can't be true, not as you tell it, / no, it must be a god who's killed our 
brazen friends." (23.69-70). 

Even among those who believe that the Odyssey is the work of one poet 
there may be those who doubt that an oral poet, using writing to con- 
struct, over the course of many years, a poem on the scale of the Odyssey, 
could deploy so effectively so subtle an understanding of the emotions 
that drive men and women together and apart. But this same sympa- 
thetic understanding of the human, especially the female, heart is at 
work not just in the scenes set in Ithaca but everywhere throughout the 
poem. Calypso, for example, when she starts Odysseus on his journey 
home, does not tell him that she does so under duress, on orders from 
Zeus, but takes credit for the action herself. And even when it is clear that 
he is determined to go, she cannot refrain from asking him how he can 
possibly prefer Penelope to her own divine person. Nausicaa on Scheria 
manages, with exquisite tact but in unmistakable terms, to offer her hand 
in marriage to Odysseus without committing herself. And at Sparta, 
behind the splendid facade of marital harmony in the royal palace lies the 
reality of subdued but barely repressed embarrassment and resentment. 
The embarrassment is revealed obliquely in the self-exculpatory story 
Helen tells of her encounter with Odysseus during the war that was 
fought for her sake. He came into Troy, she says, disguised as a beggar- 
she recognized him but helped and protected him: 

"... my heart had changed by now — 

I yearned 
to sail back home again! I grieved too late for the madness 
Aphrodite sent me ..." (4.292-94) 



The resentment is clear in Menelaus' story of Odysseus at Troy; Odysseus 
was the one who saved their lives in the wooden horse by holding them 
back when Helen, imitating the voices of their wives, called on them by 
name to come out. What is more, she was accompanied by Deiphobus, 
the second Trojan prince she had married, after the death of Paris. 

There are two remarks which Alexander Pope made about Homer that 
readers of the Odyssey should bear in mind. The first is that "Homer is 
frequently eloquent in his very Silence." And the second: "Homer has 
taken in all the inward Passions and Affections of Mankind to furnish his 
Characters." 



INTRODUCTION 



59 



THE END OF THE ODYSSEY 

JK.t the Greek line 296 of Book 23 of the Odyssey, husband and wife go 
joyfully to bed, the bed that served Penelope as the test of Odysseus' 
identity. We know Aristophanes and Aristarchus said that this was the 
"end" of the poem. We do not have their own statements, and our 
sources cite two different Greek words for "end." One of them, peras, 
means something like "limit" or "boundary," and the other, telos, besides 
meaning "end" in the temporal or spatial sense can often mean some- 
thing more like "fulfillment," "consummation" — "end" in the Aristo- 
telian sense. Some modern scholars have taken the words literally and 
pronounced the remainder of Book 23 and all of Book 24 a later addition 
composed by a different, and inferior, poet. They cannot, however, claim 
Aristarchus as their authority, for we know that he excluded the Greek 
lines 310-43 of Book 23 (in which Odysseus tells Penelope the tale of his 
travels) and lines 1-204 of Book 24 (the arrival of the shades of the 
suitors in the lower world). There would have been no point in doing so 
if he had already decided that the original poem ended at the line which 
put Odysseus and Penelope to bed. 

In any case the poem cannot end there; too many loose ends remain 
to be tied up, like the consequences of the slaughter of the suitors; too 
many scenes have been carefully prepared for, like the meeting between 
Odysseus and Laertes. The first of these themes was introduced as far 
back as Book 20, when Odysseus discussed with Athena the plan to kill 
the suitors. He was appalled by the odds, one man against so many, but 
that is not all. "There's another worry," he tells her, 



"that haunts me even more. 
What if I kill them — thanks to you and Zeus — 
how do I run from under their avengers?" 



(20.43^5) 



It is with this in mind that later, in Books 22 and 23, with the corpses 
of the suitors cluttering the hall, he tells Telemachus to have it cleared 
and to organize music and dance so that passersby will guess that Pene- 
lope has at last chosen a new husband. No rumor of the truth will get 
out before Odysseus and his followers leave for his father's farm in the 
country — where Homer will stage the last of a series of recogni- 
tion scenes. It is a scene for which audience expectation has been 
expertly aroused: in the opening book Athena-Mentes describes Laertes 



60 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



mourning for his son in isolation in the country, a theme taken up later 
by Anticleia in the world of the dead and by Eumaeus in his hut. The 
poem cannot end without a meeting between father and son; their 
reunion is in fact one of the three large units of which the final book 
consists. 

The first, the descent of the suitors to the lower world, where they 
meet Agamemnon and Achilles, was condemned by Aristarchus as an 
interpolation. For once, we have some information about an Alexan- 
drian editor's reason for such an opinion: the scholia, comments written 
on the margins of the medieval manuscripts, give us a selection. Some of 
them seem trivial; the fact that elsewhere in the poem Hermes is not 
called Cyllenian, for example, or the claim that a White Rock is not an 
appropriate landscape feature for the world of the dead. Others are more 
serious, such as his assertion that elsewhere in Homer the shades of the 
unburied are not allowed to cross the river into Hades, and the suitors' 
bodies are still in the hall of Odysseus' palace. It is true that in the Iliad 
the ghost of Patroclus, appearing to Achilles in a dream, tells him he 
cannot cross the river until Achilles gives him burial. But in the Odyssey, 
Elpenor begs Odysseus to bury his body, which has been left behind on 
Circe's island, and he is in Hades and makes no mention of a river. The 
laws and the terrain of Hades are obviously not strictly defined; they 
remain somewhat vague even in Virgil — it was Dante who gave Hell 
strict logic and a fixed geography. 

Quite apart from such considerations, the descent of the suitors' 
ghosts to the lower world has already been foreseen in the terrifying 
vision that comes to Theoclymenus in the great hall in Book 20: "Ghosts, 
look, thronging the entrance, thronging the court, / go trooping down to 
the realm of death and darkness!" (20.395-96). And Plato, who lived 
long before Aristarchus, quoted the Greek lines 6-9 of Book 24 in the 
Republic: 



[and the ghosts trailed after with high thin cries] 
as bats cry in the depths of a dark haunted cavern, 
shrilling, flittering, wild when one drops from the chain — 
slipped from the rock face, while the rest cling tight . . . 
So with their high thin cries the ghosts flocked now . . . 



(24.6-10) 



Like Aristarchus, he proposes to suppress them, but not because he 
thinks Homer did not write them — on the contrary. It is one of a list of 
passages Plato objects to because they will sap the morale of young men 



INTRODUCTION 



61 



training for battle. "We shall ask Homer ... to forgive us if we delete all 
passages of this kind. It is not because they are bad poetry ... in fact the 
better they are as poetry ... the less suitable they are for an audience of 
boys and men on whom freedom places the obligation to fear slavery 
more than death." 

The long scene in which Odysseus reveals his identity to his father has 
been roundly condemned by many modern critics. The last of his auto- 
biographical fictions, the skillfully crafted tale he tells Laertes has been 
described as a "bizarre plan," as "pointless cruelty" and as a product of 
Odysseus' "habit of distrust." There is of course no question of real dis- 
trust; he has nothing to fear from Laertes, as he might have suspected he 
had from Penelope. But all these judgments should be assessed in the 
light not only of the difficult psychological situation Odysseus is faced 
with but also of Homer's imperatives as a narrative poet. 

The last half of the Odyssey is a drama of identity disguised and 
revealed, a series of artful variations on the recognition scene. The first, 
and in some ways the strangest, of these scenes occurs in the first half of 
the poem, when Odysseus, waiting for the prophet Tiresias to appear, 
sees the ghost of his mother, Anticleia, who had still been alive when 
he left for Troy. He bursts into tears, but following Circe's instructions to 
the letter, he will not allow her to drink the sacrificial blood that would 
give her a semblance of life until he has heard from Tiresias. During the 
prophet's long speech the ghost of Anticleia sits there in silence, making 
no sound, showing no emotion. But once she is allowed to drink the 
blood, memory returns. "She knew me at once," says Odysseus, "and 
wailed out in grief" (11.175). Back on Ithaca, he reveals his identity 
to his son, but since this involves his transformation by Athena from a 
ragged beggar to a magnificently dressed and handsome man, Tele- 
machus at first (like Penelope later) is reluctant to accept him as Odys- 
seus and thinks that he must be a god. The next recognition is one 
Odysseus had not planned on and that might have aroused suspi- 
cions, but his old dog Argos, recognizing his master after twenty years, 
is too feeble to approach him and can do no more than let his ears 
droop and wag his tail and then die. The next recognition, Eurycleia's 
discovery of the scar, might have disrupted his plans, but he forces her to 
keep silent. Just before the climactic moment when he gets his hands on 
the bow, he reveals his identity to Eumaeus and the shepherd Philoetius, 
enlisting them on his side, and the next revelation is also his initiative: 
after killing Antinous, he tells the suitors who he is and what will happen 
to them. "You dogs! you never imagined I'd return from Troy — / . . . 



62 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



your doom is sealed!" (22.36-42). Penelope, in her turn, is unable to 
accept the revelation of his identity, but after he passes her test she clasps 
him joyfully in her arms. Only the recognition by Laertes remains. 

It comes as no surprise. Not only does Odysseus tell Penelope of his 
intention to confront his father, but Laertes' overwhelming grief for his 
missing son and his withdrawal from society have been described in har- 
rowing detail by Athena-Mentes, Anticleia and Eumaeus. The theme has 
been building to a climax, and something more than a simple declaration 
and joyful acceptance is required by the laws of storytelling. The poet's 
dilemma is in fact reflected in the text, put in the mouth of Odysseus. 
Catching sight of his father, "a man worn down with years, his heart 
racked with sorrow" (24.258), Odysseus 



halted under a branching pear-tree, paused and wept. 
Debating, head and heart, what should he do now? 
Kiss and embrace his father, pour out the long tale — . . . 
or probe him first and test him every way? 



(24.259-63) 



Like his hero, Homer decides on the second alternative. 

But the choice makes sense also in terms of the persons involved. 
Laertes is a man to whose burden of old age has been added the loss of 
his only son — missing in action, no word of when, where, how or even if 
he died. Laertes has become a hermit, never coming into town, Athena- 
Mentes says in the opening book of the poem, suffering as he drags him- 
self along the slope of his vineyard. Anticleia, his dead wife, rounds out 
the picture of his renunciation of civilized life: he sleeps with slaves in 
the ashes by the fire in winter and on fallen leaves in the summer, 
nursing his overwhelming grief. Eumaeus tells Odysseus that the old 
man prays for death as he grieves for his son and his wife, and that his 
reaction to the news that Telemachus has sailed off to Pylos is to refuse 
food and drink. 

Clearly this is a case that calls for careful handling if Laertes is to be 
extracted from the prison of grief and self-humiliation in which he has 
closed himself off from the world. What Odysseus does is to bring him 
back to consciousness of his own dignity as a man and a king before 
making any mention of his son. The first part of his long, adroitly struc- 
tured speech consists of what Homer calls "reproachful words." The 
adjective kertomiois is usually translated as "bantering" or "mocking," and 
it does often carry that meaning, but from what follows here it clearly in 
this case means "reproachful," as its cognate noun does in the first book 



INTRODUCTION 



63 



of the Iliad (line 539 in the Greek), where it describes Hera's angry accu- 
sation that Zeus is, as usual, conspiring against her. 

Odysseus' reproaches are far from gentle. He takes note of Laertes' 
patched and miserable garments, his fieldhand's leather shin guards and 
gloves, his goatskin cap. Though he starts by commending him on his 
work, and pays him the compliment of detecting the lineaments of roy- 
alty under his sordid appearance, he ends the first part of his speech with 
a question deliberately phrased for its shock effect: "whose slave are you? 
whose orchard are you tending?" (24.284). Nothing could more swiftly 
bring Laertes to a realization of the degraded condition into which he has 
allowed himself to fall, and Odysseus now asks another question— 
whether he is indeed in Ithaca. For he once befriended and helped a man 
from Ithaca, the son of Laertes. "By posing questions, awaking memo- 
ries, and stirring long-repressed feelings," Heubeck writes in his masterly 
commentary on Book 24 (III, p. 390), "Odysseus forces his father not 
only to answer the questions put, but to ask questions in return, and so, 
step by step, to emerge from his self-inflicted isolation and apathy." 
Finally, told that the man he is talking to is Odysseus in person, he asks 
for a sign and is given not only the scar that Eurycleia recognized but 
Odysseus' enumeration of the trees his father had given him when he 
was a little boy— "thirteen pear, ten apple trees / and forty figs" 
(24.379-80). Laertes flings his arms around his long-lost son and the two 
of them go off to the farmhouse to join Telemachus. 

There is little more to be told. The fathers of some of the dead 
suitors— in spite of Medon's caution that he had seen a god helping 
Odysseus in the fighting and old Halitherses' reminder that they were 
themselves to blame for not restraining their sons — arm and set out, led 
by Eupithes, Antinous' father, to exact vengeance from Odysseus and his 
party. Only one man is killed: Eupithes, at the hand of a Laertes rejuve- 
nated by Athena. The goddess puts an end to the fighting and then, in 
the shape of Mentor, administers oaths to both sides as a guarantee of 
reconciliation and peace. 

The poem ends here, but like the Iliad, it has already charted the 
future of its hero. Achilles has been told by his mother, Thetis, that his 
death will come soon after Hector's, but he will not renounce his pas- 
sionate resolve to avenge Patroclus' death. As he prepares to take 
Lycaon's life, he foresees the end of his own — "There will come a dawn 
or sunset or high noon / when a man will take my life in battle too" 
(21.125-6). In the Odyssey the hero's death is foretold by Tiresias in the 
underworld. After he has killed the suitors, Tiresias tells him, he must 



64 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



make his peace with the god Poseidon by traveling inland, carrying an 
oar on his shoulder, until he reaches a people utterly ignorant of the sea 
and ships. When one of them asks him why he is carrying a winnowing 
fan on his shoulder, he is to fix the oar in the ground and make an extra- 
ordinary sacrifice — a bull, a ram and a boar — to Poseidon. Once returned 
home, he is to sacrifice to all the Olympian gods in turn. "And at last 
your own death," says Tiresias, 



"will steal upon you . . . 
a gentle, painless death, far from the sea it comes 
to take you down, borne down with the years in ripe old age 
with all your people there in blessed peace around you." (i 1.153-56) 



THE SPELLING AND 

PRONUNCIATION OF 

HOMERIC NAMES 



Though the English spelling of ancient Greek names faces modern 
poet-translators with some difficult problems, it was not a problem at all 
for Shakespeare, Milton, Pope and Tennyson. Except in the case of 
names that had through constant use been fully Anglicized— Hector, 
Helen, Troy — the poets used Latin equivalents of the Greek names, 
which they found in the poems of Virgil and Ovid that they read in 
school. These are the forms we also are familiar with, from our reading of 
English poets through the centuries: Circe, Scylla, Sirens. 

Recent poet-translators have tried to get closer to the original Greek 
and have transliterated the Greek names directly, not through the 
medium of their Latin adaptations. One translator, for example, presents 
his readers with Kirke, Skylla and the Seirenes. Another shares several of 
these spellings but will strike a compromise at times— Circe, Skylla. All 
translators compromise when it comes to such fully naturalized forms as 
Helen, Trojans and Argives (Helene, Troes and Argeioi in the Greek), and 
they also retreat from strict transliteration in cases like Odysseus 
(Odusseus), Priam (Priamos) and Thrace (Threike). 

This is an area in which no one can claim perfect consistency: we too 
offer a compromise. Its basis, however, is a return to the traditional prac- 
tice of generations of English poets— the use of Latinate spellings except 
for those names that have become, in their purely English forms, familiar 
in our mouths as household words. 

Rigid adherence to this rule would of course make unacceptable 
demands: it would impose, for instance, Minerva instead of Athena, 
Ulysses for Odysseus, Jupiter or Jove for Zeus. We have preferred the 
Greek names, but transliterated them on Latin principles: Here, for 
example, is Hera in this translation; Athene is Athena. Elsewhere we have 
replaced the letter k with c and substituted the ending us for the Greek os 
in the names of persons (Patroklos becomes Patroclus). When, however, a 
personal name ends in ros preceded by a consonant, we have used the 
Latin ending er: Pisander for Peisandros. The Greek diphthongs at and oi 
are represented by the Latin diphthongs ae and oe (Achaean for Akhaian, 
Euboea for Euboia). 

This conventional Latinate spelling of the names has a traditional 



65 



66 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



pronunciation system, one that corresponds with neither the Greek nor 
the Latin sounds. Perhaps "system" is not the best word for it, since it 
is full of inconsistencies. But it is the pronunciation English poets have 
used for centuries, the sounds they heard mentally as they composed 
and that they confidently expected their readers to hear in their turn. 
Since there seems to be no similar convention for the English pronun- 
ciation of modern transliterated Greek — is the h sounded in Akhilleus? 
is Diomedes pronounced dee-oh-may'-days or dee-oh-mee'-deez? — we have 
thought it best to work with pronunciation that Keats and Shelley would 
have recognized. 

As in Achilles (a-kil'-eez), ch is pronounced like k throughout. The 
consonants c and g are hard (as in "cake" and "gun") before a — Acastus 
(a-kas'-tus), Agamemnon (a-ga-mem'-non); before o — Leucothea (lew-ko'- 
the-a), Gorgon (gor'-gon); before u — Autolycus (aw-to'-li-kus); and before 
other consonants — Patroclus (pa-tro'-klus), Cauconians (kaw-kho'-ni-unz). 
They are soft (as in "cinder" and "George") before e — Circe (sir'-see), Ger- 
aestus (je-ree'-stus); before i — Cicones (si-koh'-neez), and before y — 
Cyclops (seye'-klops), Gyrae (jeye'-ree). The final combinations cia and 
gia produce sha — Phaeacia (fee-ay'-sha) — and ja — Ortygia (or-ti'-ja) — 
respectively. There are, however, cases in which the pronunciation of 
the consonants does not conform to these rules. One of the names of the 
Greeks, for instance — Argives — is pronounced with a hard g (ar'-geyevz, 
not ar'-jeyevz), by analogy with the town of Argos. 

The vowels vary in pronunciation, sometimes but not always accord- 
ing to the length of the Latin (or Greek) syllable, and the reader will have 
to find guidance in the rhythm of the English line or consult the Pro- 
nouncing Glossary at the back of the volume. Final e is always sounded 
long: Hebe (hee'-bee); final es is pronounced eez, as in Achilles. In other 
positions, the letter e may represent the sound heard in sneeze or that 
heard in pet. The letter i may sound as in "bit" or "bite": Antinous (an-tV- 
no-us) or Atrides (a-treye'-deez). The two sounds are also found for y — 
Cythera (si-thee'-ra) or Cyprus (seye'-prus) — while o is pronounced as in 
Olympus (o-lim'-pus) or Dodona (doh-doh'-na). In this spelling system, u 
except in the ending us and in combination with other vowels (see 
below) is always long, since it represents the Greek diphthong ou. But it 
may be pronounced either you as in "dew" — Dulichion (dew -IV -ki- on) — or 
oo as in "glue" — Arethusa (a-re-thoo'-sa). 

The diphthongs oe and ae are both pronounced ee — Achaeans (a-kee'- 
unz), Oenops (ee'-nops). The combination aer does not produce a diph- 
thong: Laertes (lay-ur'-teez); in cases where these letters are sounded 
separately, a dieresis is used: Phaethusa (fay-e-thoo'-sa). The diphthong 



THE SPELLING AND PRONUNCIATION OF HOMERIC NAMES 



67 



au is pronounced aw— Nausicaa (naw-si'-kay-a) — but in name endings, 
Menelaus, for example, it is not a diphthong, and the vowels are pro- 
nounced separately (me-ne-lay'-us). Since his name is familiar to the 
English reader, we have thought it unnecessary to use the dieresis in 
such cases. The ending ous is similar: Pirithous (peye-rV -tho-us) . The 
ending eus is sounded like yoos— Odysseus (o-dis'-yoos), except in the case 
of the name of one river— Alpheus (al-fee'-us)— and one Phaeacian elder, 
Echeneus (e-ken-ee'-us). 

All other vowel combinations are pronounced not as diphthongs but 
as separate vowels. Double o is pronounced o-oh: Thoosa (tho-oh'-sa). 
Similarly, oi is treated not as a diphthong but as two separate sounds- 
Okies (oh-ik'-leez). The sequence ei, however, is pronounced eye, as in the 
feminine name ending eia: Anticleia (an-ti-kleye'-a), Eurycleia (yoo-ri- 
kleye'-a) and other names as well; the constellation called the Pleiades 
(pleye'-a-deez) and the sea-nymph Eidothea (eye-do' -the-a); but Deiphobus 
(dee-i '-jo-bus) is an exception. 

Obviously we cannot claim complete consistency even within the 
limits we have imposed on the system. Where no Latin form exists, as in 
the case of Poseidon, we have used the transliterated Greek, traditionally 
pronounced po-seye'-don (not po-see'-i-don). But we can claim to have 
reduced the unsightly dieresis to a minor factor and to have given the 
reader who comes to Homer for the first time a guide to pronunciation 
that will stand him or her in good stead when reading other poets who 
mention Greek names. We have also provided a Pronouncing Glossary of 
all the proper names in the text, which indicates stress and English vowel 
length. 



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GERAESTU.ST 



HOMER: 

THE 

ODYSSEY 



BOOK ONE 




Athena Inspires 
the Prince 



ijing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns 

driven time and again off course, once he had plundered 

the hallowed heights of Troy. 

Many cities of men he saw and learned their minds, 

many pains he suffered, heartsick on the open sea, 

fighting to save his life and bring his comrades home. 

But he could not save them from disaster, hard as he strove— 

the recklessness of their own ways destroyed them all, 

the blind fools, they devoured the cattle of the Sun 

and the Sungod blotted out the day of their return. 10 

Launch out on his story, Muse, daughter of Zeus, 

start from where you will — sing for our time too. 



all the survivors, all who avoided headlong death 
were safe at home, escaped the wars and waves. 



By now, 



77 



78 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



113-43] 



But one man alone . . . 

his heart set on his wife and his return — Calypso, 

the bewitching nymph, the lustrous goddess, held him back, 

deep in her arching caverns, craving him for a husband. 

But then, when the wheeling seasons brought the year around, 

that year spun out by the gods when he should reach his home, 20 

Ithaca — though not even there would he be free of trials, 

even among his loved ones — then every god took pity, 

all except Poseidon. He raged on, seething against 

the great Odysseus till he reached his native land. 

But now 
Poseidon had gone to visit the Ethiopians worlds away, 
Ethiopians off at the farthest limits of mankind, 
a people split in two, one part where the Sungod sets 
and part where the Sungod rises. There Poseidon went 
to receive an offering, bulls and rams by the hundred — 
far away at the feast the Sea-lord sat and took his pleasure. 30 

But the other gods, at home in Olympian Zeus's halls, 
met for full assembly there, and among them now 
the father of men and gods was first to speak, 
sorely troubled, remembering handsome Aegisthus, 
the man Agamemnon's son, renowned Orestes, killed. 
Recalling Aegisthus, Zeus harangued the immortal powers: 
"Ah how shameless — the way these mortals blame the gods. 
From us alone, they say, come all their miseries, yes, 
but they themselves, with their own reckless ways, 

compound their pains beyond their proper share. 40 

Look at Aegisthus now . . . 

above and beyond his share he stole Atrides' wife, 
he murdered the warlord coming home from Troy 
though he knew it meant his own total ruin. 
Far in advance we told him so ourselves, 
dispatching the guide, the giant-killer Hermes. 
'Don't murder the man,' he said, 'don't court his wife. 
Beware, revenge will come from Orestes, Agamemnon's son, 
that day he comes of age and longs for his native land.' 
So Hermes warned, with all the good will in the world, 50 



[43-71] 



BOOK i: ATHENA INSPIRES THE PRINCE 



79 



but would Aegisthus' hardened heart give way? 
Now he pays the price — all at a single stroke." 

And sparkling-eyed Athena drove the matter home: 
"Father, son of Cronus, our high and mighty king, 
surely he goes down to a death he earned in full! 
Let them all die so, all who do such things. 
But my heart breaks for Odysseus, 
that seasoned veteran cursed by fate so long — 
far from his loved ones still, he suffers torments 
off on a wave-washed island rising at the center of the seas. 
A dark wooded island, and there a goddess makes her home, 
daughter of Atlas, wicked Titan who sounds the deep 
in all its depths, whose shoulders lift on high 
the colossal pillars thrusting earth and sky apart. 
Atlas' daughter it is who holds Odysseus captive, 
luckless man — despite his tears, forever trying 
to spellbind his heart with suave, seductive words 
and wipe all thought of Ithaca from his mind. 
But he, straining for no more than a glimpse 
of hearth-smoke drifting up from his own land, 
Odysseus longs to die . . . 

Olympian Zeus, 
have you no care for him in your lofty heart? 
Did he never win your favor with sacrifices 
burned beside the ships on the broad plain of Troy? 
Why, Zeus, why so dead set against Odysseus?" 

"My child," Zeus who marshals the thunderheads replied, 
"what nonsense you let slip through your teeth. Now, 
how on earth could I forget Odysseus? Great Odysseus 
who excels all men in wisdom, excels in offerings too 
he gives the immortal gods who rule the vaulting skies? 
No, it's the Earth-Shaker, Poseidon, unappeased, 
forever fuming against him for the Cyclops 
whose giant eye he blinded: godlike Polyphemus, 
towering over all the Cyclops' clans in power. 



60 



70 



80 



80 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[71-103] 



The nymph Thoosa bore him, daughter of Phorcys, 

lord of the barren salt sea — she met Poseidon 

once in his vaulted caves and they made love. 

And now for his blinded son the earthquake god — 

though he won't quite kill Odysseus — 

drives him far off course from native land. 90 

But come, all of us here put heads together now, 

work out his journey home so Odysseus can return. 

Lord Poseidon, I trust, will let his anger go. 

How can he stand his ground against the will 

of all the gods at once — one god alone?" 

Athena, her eyes flashing bright, exulted, 
"Father, son of Cronus, our high and mighty king! 
If now it really pleases the blissful gods 
that wise Odysseus shall return — home at last — 

let us dispatch the guide and giant-killer Hermes 100 

down to Ogygia Island, down to announce at once 
to the nymph with lovely braids our fixed decree: 
Odysseus journeys home — the exile must return! 
While I myself go down to Ithaca, rouse his son 
to a braver pitch, inspire his heart with courage 
to summon the flowing-haired Achaeans to full assembly, 
speak his mind to all those suitors, slaughtering on and on 
his droves of sheep and shambling longhorn cattle. 
Next I will send him off to Sparta and sandy Pylos, 

there to learn of his dear father's journey home. no 

Perhaps he will hear some news and make his name 
throughout the mortal world." 

So Athena vowed 
and under her feet she fastened the supple sandals, 
ever-glowing gold, that wing her over the waves 
and boundless earth with the rush of gusting winds. 
She seized the rugged spear tipped with a bronze point — 
weighted, heavy, the massive shaft she wields to break the lines 
of heroes the mighty Father's daughter storms against. 
And down she swept from Olympus' craggy peaks 
and lit on Ithaca, standing tall at Odysseus' gates, 120 



[104-33] 



BOOK i: ATHENA INSPIRES THE PRINCE 



81 



the threshold of his court. Gripping her bronze spear, 
she looked for all the world like a stranger now, 
like Mentes, lord of the Taphians. 
There she found the swaggering suitors, just then 
amusing themselves with rolling dice before the doors, 
lounging on hides of oxen they had killed themselves. 
While heralds and brisk attendants bustled round them, 
some at the mixing-bowls, mulling wine and water, 
others wiping the tables down with sopping sponges, 
setting them out in place, still other servants 
jointed and carved the great sides of meat. 

First by far to see her was Prince Telemachus, 
sitting among the suitors, heart obsessed with grief. 
He could almost see his magnificent father, here . . . 
in the mind's eye — if only he might drop from the clouds 
and drive these suitors all in a rout throughout the halls 
and regain his pride of place and rule his own domains! 
Daydreaming so as he sat among the suitors, 
he glimpsed Athena now 
and straight to the porch he went, mortified 
that a guest might still be standing at the doors. 
Pausing beside her there, he clasped her right hand 
and relieving her at once of her long bronze spear, 
met her with winged words: "Greetings, stranger! 
Here in our house you'll find a royal welcome. 
Have supper first, then tell us what you need." 

He led the way and Pallas Athena followed. 
Once in the high-roofed hall, he took her lance 
and fixed it firm in a burnished rack against 
a sturdy pillar, there where row on row of spears, 
embattled Odysseus' spears, stood stacked and waiting. 
Then he escorted her to a high, elaborate chair of honor, 
over it draped a cloth, and here he placed his guest 
with a stool to rest her feet. But for himself 
he drew up a low reclining chair beside her, 
richly painted, clear of the press of suitors, 



130 



140 



150 



82 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[133-65] 



concerned his guest, offended by their uproar, 

might shrink from food in the midst of such a mob. 

He hoped, what's more, to ask him about his long-lost father. 

A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher 160 

and over a silver basin tipped it out 

so they might rinse their hands, 

then pulled a gleaming table to their side. 

A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve them, 

appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. 

A carver lifted platters of meat toward them, 

meats of every sort, and set beside them golden cups 

and time and again a page came round and poured them wine. 

But now the suitors trooped in with all their swagger 
and took their seats on low and high-backed chairs. no 

Heralds poured water over their hands for rinsing, 
serving maids brought bread heaped high in trays 
and the young men brimmed the mixing-bowls with wine. 
They reached out for the good things that lay at hand, 
and when they'd put aside desire for food and drink 
the suitors set their minds on other pleasures, 
song and dancing, all that crowns a feast. 
A herald placed an ornate lyre in Phemius' hands, 
the bard who always performed among them there; 
they forced the man to sing. 

A rippling prelude — iso 

and no sooner had he struck up his rousing song 
than Telemachus, head close to Athena's sparkling eyes, 
spoke low to his guest so no one else could hear: 
"Dear stranger, would you be shocked by what I say? 
Look at them over there. Not a care in the world, 
just lyres and tunes! Easy for them, all right, 
they feed on another's goods and go scot-free — 
a man whose white bones lie strewn in the rain somewhere, 
rotting away on land or rolling down the ocean's salty swells. 
But that man — if they caught sight of him home in Ithaca, 190 

by god, they'd all pray to be faster on their feet 
than richer in bars of gold and heavy robes. 



[166-97] 



BOOK i: ATHENA INSPIRES THE PRINCE 



83 



But now, no use, he's died a wretched death. 
No comfort's left for us . . . not even if 
someone, somewhere, says he's coming home. 
The day of his return will never dawn. 

Enough. 
Tell me about yourself now, clearly, point by point. 
Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents? 
What sort of vessel brought you? Why did the sailors 
land you here in Ithaca? Who did they say they are? 200 

I hardly think you came this way on foot! 
And tell me this for a fact — I need to know — 
is this your first time here? Or are you a friend of father's, 
a guest from the old days? Once, crowds of other men 
would come to our house on visits — visitor that he was, 
when he walked among the living." 

Her eyes glinting, 
goddess Athena answered, "My whole story, of course, 
I'll tell it point by point. Wise old Anchialus 
was my father. My own name is Mentes, 

lord of the Taphian men who love their oars. 210 

And here I've come, just now, with ship and crew, 
sailing the wine -dark sea to foreign ports of call, 
to Temese, out for bronze— our cargo gleaming iron. 
Our ship lies moored off farmlands far from town, 
riding in Rithron Cove, beneath Mount Nion's woods. 
As for the ties between your father and myself, 
we've been friends forever, I'm proud to say, 
and he would bear me out 
if you went and questioned old lord Laertes. 

He, I gather, no longer ventures into town 220 

but lives a life of hardship, all to himself, 
off on his farmstead with an aged serving-woman 
who tends him well, who gives him food and drink 
when weariness has taken hold of his withered limbs 
from hauling himself along his vineyard's steep slopes. 
And now I've come — and why? I heard that he was back . . . 
your father, that is. But no, the gods thwart his passage. 
Yet I tell you great Odysseus is not dead. He's still alive, 



84 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



somewhere in this wide world, held captive, out at sea 
on a wave-washed island, and hard men, savages, 
somehow hold him back against his will. 

Wait, 
I'll make you a prophecy, one the immortal gods 
have planted in my mind — it will come true, I think, 
though I'm hardly a seer or know the flights of birds. 
He won't be gone long from the native land he loves, 
not even if iron shackles bind your father down. 
He's plotting a way to journey home at last; 
he's never at a loss. 

But come, please, 
tell me about yourself now, point by point. 
You're truly Odysseus' son? You've sprung up so! 
Uncanny resemblance . . . the head, and the fine eyes — 
I see him now. How often we used to meet in the old days 
before he embarked for Troy, where other Argive captains, 
all the best men, sailed in the long curved ships. 
From then to this very day 
I've not set eyes on Odysseus or he on me." 

And young Telemachus cautiously replied, 
"I'll try, my friend, to give you a frank answer. 
Mother has always told me I'm his son, it's true, 
but I am not so certain. Who, on his own, 
has ever really known who gave him life? 
Would to god I'd been the son of a happy man 
whom old age overtook in the midst of his possessions! 
Now, think of the most unlucky mortal ever born — 
since you ask me, yes, they say I am his son." 

"Still," the clear-eyed goddess reassured him, 
"trust me, the gods have not marked out your house 
for such an unsung future, 
not if Penelope has borne a son like you. 
But tell me about all this and spare me nothing. 
What's this banqueting, this crowd carousing here? 
And what part do you play yourself? Some wedding-feast, 



1197-226] 



230 



[226-55] 



BOOK i: ATHENA INSPIRES THE PRINCE 



85 



240 



250 



260 



some festival? Hardly a potluck supper, I would say. 
How obscenely they lounge and swagger here, look, 
gorging in your house. Why, any man of sense 
who chanced among them would be outraged, 
seeing such behavior." 

Ready Telemachus 
took her up at once: "Well, my friend, 
seeing you want to probe and press the question, 
once this house was rich, no doubt, beyond reproach 
when the man you mentioned still lived here, at home. 
Now the gods have reversed our fortunes with a vengeance — 
wiped that man from the earth like no one else before. 
I would never have grieved so much about his death 
if he'd gone down with comrades off in Troy 
or died in the arms of loved ones, 
once he had wound down the long coil of war. 
Then all united Achaea would have raised his tomb 
and he'd have won his son great fame for years to come. 
But now the whirlwinds have ripped him away, no fame for him! 
He's lost and gone now — out of sight, out of mind — and I . . . 
he's left me tears and grief. Nor do I rack my heart 
and grieve for him alone. No longer. Now the gods 
have invented other miseries to plague me. 

Listen. 
All the nobles who rule the islands round about, 
Dulichion, and Same, and wooded Zacynthus too, 
and all who lord it in rocky Ithaca as well — 
down to the last man they court my mother, 
they lay waste my house! And mother . . . 
she neither rejects a marriage she despises 
nor can she bear to bring the courting to an end — 
while they continue to bleed my household white. 
Soon — you wait — they'll grind me down as well." 

"Shameful!"— 
brimming with indignation, Pallas Athena broke out. 
"Oh how much you need Odysseus, gone so long — 
how he' A lay hands on all these brazen suitors! 
If only he would appear, now, 



270 



280 



290 



86 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



at his house's outer gates and take his stand, 

armed with his helmet, shield and pair of spears, 

as strong as the man I glimpsed that first time 

in our own house, drinking wine and reveling there . . . 

just come in from Ephyra, visiting Ilus, Mermerus' son. 

Odysseus sailed that way, you see, in his swift trim ship, 

hunting deadly poison to smear on his arrows' bronze heads. 

Ilus refused — he feared the wrath of the everlasting gods — 

but father, so fond of him, gave him all he wanted. 

If only that Odysseus sported with these suitors, 

a blood wedding, a quick death would take the lot! 

True, but all lies in the lap of the great gods, 

whether or not he'll come and pay them back, 

here, in his own house. 

But you, I urge you, 
think how to drive these suitors from your halls. 
Come now, listen closely. Take my words to heart. 
At daybreak summon the island's lords to full assembly, 
give your orders to all and call the gods to witness: 
tell the suitors to scatter, each to his own place. 
As for your mother, if the spirit moves her to marry, 
let her go back to her father's house, a man of power. 
Her kin will arrange the wedding, provide the gifts, 
the array that goes with a daughter dearly loved. 

For you, 
I have some good advice, if only you will accept it. 
Fit out a ship with twenty oars, the best in sight, 
sail in quest of news of your long-lost father. 
Someone may tell you something 
or you may catch a rumor straight from Zeus, 
rumor that carries news to men like nothing else. 
First go down to Pylos, question old King Nestor, 
then cross over to Sparta, to red-haired Menelaus, 
of all the bronze-armored Achaeans the last man back. 
Now, if you hear your father's alive and heading home, 
hard-pressed as you are, brave out one more year. 
If you hear he's dead, no longer among the living, 
then back you come to the native land you love, 



[255-90] 



300 



[291-319] 



BOOK i: ATHENA INSPIRES THE PRINCE 



87 



310 



320 



330 



raise his grave-mound, build his honors high 
with the full funeral rites that he deserves — 
and give your mother to another husband. 

Then, 
once you've sealed those matters, seen them through, 
think hard, reach down deep in your heart and soul 
for a way to kill these suitors in your house, 
by stealth or in open combat. 
You must not cling to your boyhood any longer — 
it's time you were a man. Haven't you heard 
what glory Prince Orestes won throughout the world 
when he killed that cunning, murderous Aegisthus, 
who'd killed his famous father? 

And you, my friend — 
how tall and handsome I see you now — be brave, you too, 
so men to come will sing your praises down the years. 
But now I must go back to my swift trim ship 
and all my shipmates, chafing there, I'm sure, 
waiting for my return. It all rests with you. 
Take my words to heart." 

"Oh stranger," 
heedful Telemachus replied, "indeed I will. 
You've counseled me with so much kindness now, 
like a father to a son. I won't forget a word. 
But come, stay longer, keen as you are to sail, 
so you can bathe and rest and lift your spirits, 
then go back to your ship, delighted with a gift, 
a prize of honor, something rare and fine 
as a keepsake from myself. The kind of gift 
a host will give a stranger, friend to friend." 

Her eyes glinting, Pallas declined in haste: 
"Not now. Don't hold me here. I long to be on my way. 
As for the gift — whatever you'd give in kindness — 
save it for my return so I can take it home. 
Choose something rare and fine, and a good reward 
that gift is going to bring you." 

With that promise, 



340 



350 



360 



88 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[319-t8] 



[348-781 



BOOK i: ATHENA INSPIRES THE PRINCE 



89 



off and away Athena the bright-eyed goddess flew 

like a bird in soaring flight 

but left his spirit filled with nerve and courage, 

charged with his father's memory more than ever now. 

He felt his senses quicken, overwhelmed with wonder — 

this was a god, he knew it well and made at once 

for the suitors, a man like a god himself. 

Amidst them still 
the famous bard sang on, and they sat in silence, listening 
as he performed The Achaeans' Journey Home from Troy: 
all the blows Athena doomed them to endure. 

And now, 
from high above in her room and deep in thought, 
she caught his inspired strains . . . 
Icarius' daughter Penelope, wary and reserved, 
and down the steep stair from her chamber she descended, 
not alone: two of her women followed close behind. 
That radiant woman, once she reached her suitors, 
drawing her glistening veil across her cheeks, 
paused now where a column propped the sturdy roof, 
with one of her loyal handmaids stationed either side. 
Suddenly, dissolving in tears and bursting through 
the bard's inspired voice, she cried out, "Phemius! 
So many other songs you know to hold us spellbound, 
works of the gods and men that singers celebrate. 
Sing one of those as you sit beside them here 
and they drink their wine in silence. 

But break off this song- 
the unendurable song that always rends the heart inside me . 
the unforgettable grief, it wounds me most of all! 
How I long for my husband — alive in memory, always, 
that great man whose fame resounds through Hellas 
right to the depths of Argos!" 

"Why, mother," 
poised Telemachus put in sharply, "why deny 
our devoted bard the chance to entertain us 
any way the spirit stirs him on? 
Bards are not to blame — 



370 



380 



390 



400 



Zeus is to blame. He deals to each and every 
laborer on this earth whatever doom he pleases. 
Why fault the bard if he sings the Argives' harsh fate? 
It's always the latest song, the one that echoes last 
in the listeners' ears, that people praise the most. 
Courage, mother. Harden your heart, and listen. 
Odysseus was scarcely the only one, you know, 
whose journey home was blotted out at Troy. 
Others, so many others, died there too. 

So, mother, 
go back to your quarters. Tend to your own tasks, 
the distaff and the loom, and keep the women 
working hard as well. As for giving orders, 
men will see to that, but I most of all: 
/ hold the reins of power in this house." 

Astonished, 
she withdrew to her own room. She took to heart 
the clear good sense in what her son had said. 
Climbing up to the lofty chamber with her women, 
she fell to weeping for Odysseus, her beloved husband, 
till watchful Athena sealed her eyes with welcome sleep. 

But the suitors broke into uproar through the shadowed halls, 
all of them lifting prayers to lie beside her, share her bed, 
until discreet Telemachus took command: "You suitors 
who plague my mother, you, you insolent, overweening . . . 
for this evening let us dine and take our pleasure, 
no more shouting now. What a fine thing it is 
to listen to such a bard as we have here — 
the man sings like a god. 

But at first light 
we all march forth to assembly, take our seats 
so I can give my orders and say to you straight out: 
You must leave my palace! See to your feasting elsewhere, 
devour your own possessions, house to house by turns. 
But if you decide the fare is better, richer here, 
destroying one man's goods and going scot-free, 
all right then, carve away! 



410 



420 



430 



90 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[378-410] 



But I'll cry out to the everlasting gods in hopes 

that Zeus will pay you back with a vengeance — all of you 

destroyed in my house while I go scot-free myself!" 

So Telemachus declared. And they all bit their lips, 
amazed the prince could speak with so much daring. 

Eupithes' son Antinous broke their silence: 440 

"Well, Telemachus, only the gods could teach you 
to sound so high and mighty! Such brave talk. 
I pray that Zeus will never make you king of Ithaca, 
though your father's crown is no doubt yours by birth." 

But cool-headed Telemachus countered firmly: 
"Antinous, even though my words may offend you, 
I'd be happy to take the crown if Zeus presents it. 
You think that nothing worse could befall a man? 
It's really not so bad to be a king. All at once 

your palace grows in wealth, your honors grow as well. 450 

But there are hosts of other Achaean princes, look — 
young and old, crowds of them on our island here — 
and any one of the lot might hold the throne, 
now great Odysseus is dead . . . 
But I'll be lord of my own house and servants, 
all that King Odysseus won for me by force." 

And now Eurymachus, Polybus' son, stepped in: 
"Surely this must lie in the gods' lap, Telemachus — 
which Achaean will lord it over seagirt Ithaca. 

Do hold on to your own possessions, rule your house. 460 

God forbid that anyone tear your holdings from your hands 
while men still live in Ithaca. 

But about your guest, 
dear boy, I have some questions. Where does he come from? 
Where's his country, his birth, his father's old estates? 
Did he bring some news of your father, his return? 
Or did he come on business of his own? 
How he leapt to his feet and off he went! 



[410-41] 



BOOK 



ATHENA INSPIRES THE PRINCE 



91 



No waiting around for proper introductions. 

And no mean man, not by the looks of him, I'd say." 

"Eurymachus," Telemachus answered shrewdly, 
"clearly my father's journey home is lost forever. 
I no longer trust in rumors — rumors from the blue — 
nor bother with any prophecy, when mother calls 
some wizard into the house to ask him questions. 
As for the stranger though, 
the man's an old family friend, from Taphos, 
wise Anchialus' son. He says his name is Mentes, 
lord of the Taphian men who love their oars." 

So he said 
but deep in his mind he knew the immortal goddess. 
Now the suitors turned to dance and song, 
to the lovely beat and sway, 
waiting for dusk to come upon them there . . . 
and the dark night came upon them, lost in pleasure. 
Finally, to bed. Each to his own house. 

Telemachus, 
off to his bedroom built in the fine courtyard — 
a commanding, lofty room set well apart — 
retired too, his spirit swarming with misgivings. 
His devoted nurse attended him, bearing a glowing torch, 
Eurycleia the daughter of Ops, Pisenor's son. 
Laertes had paid a price for the woman years ago, 
still in the bloom of youth. He traded twenty oxen, 
honored her on a par with his own loyal wife at home 
but fearing the queen's anger, never shared her bed. 
She was his grandson's escort now and bore a torch, 
for she was the one of all the maids who loved 
the prince the most — she'd nursed him as a baby. 
He spread the doors of his snug, well-made room, 
sat down on the bed and pulled his soft shirt off, 
tossed it into the old woman's conscientious hands, 
and after folding it neatly, patting it smooth, 
she hung it up on a peg beside his corded bed, 
then padded from the bedroom, 



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drawing the door shut with the silver hook, 
sliding the doorbolt home with its rawhide strap. 
There all night long, wrapped in a sheep's warm fleece, 
he weighed in his mind the course Athena charted. 



BOOK TWO 




Telemachus 
Sets Sail 



When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 

the true son of Odysseus sprang from bed and dressed, 

over his shoulder he slung his well-honed sword, 

fastened rawhide sandals under his smooth feet 

and stepped from his bedroom, handsome as a god. 

At once he ordered heralds to cry out loud and clear 

and summon the flowing-haired Achaeans to full assembly. 

Their cries rang out. The people filed in quickly. 

When they'd grouped, crowding the meeting grounds, 

Telemachus strode in too, a bronze spear in his grip 

and not alone: two sleek hounds went trotting at his heels. 

And Athena lavished a marvelous splendor on the prince 

so the people all gazed in wonder as he came forward, 

the elders making way as he took his father's seat. 

The first to speak was an old lord, Aegyptius, 



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stooped with age, who knew the world by heart. 
For one dear son had sailed with King Odysseus, 
bound in the hollow ships to the stallion-land of Troy — 
the spearman Antiphus — but the brutal Cyclops killed him, 
trapped in his vaulted cave, the last man the monster ate. 
Three other sons he had: one who mixed with the suitors, 
Eurynomus, and two kept working their father's farms. 
Still, he never forgot the soldier, desolate in his grief. 
In tears for the son he lost, he rose and said among them, 
"Hear me, men of Ithaca. Hear what I have to say. 
Not once have we held assembly, met in session 
since King Odysseus sailed in the hollow ships. 
Who has summoned us now — one of the young men, 
one of the old-timers? What crisis spurs him on? 
Some news he's heard of an army on the march, 
word he's caught firsthand so he can warn us now? 
Or some other public matter he'll disclose and argue? 
He's a brave man, I'd say. God be with him, too! 
May Zeus speed him on to a happy end, 
whatever his heart desires!" 

Winning words 
with a lucky ring. Odysseus' son rejoiced; 
the boy could sit no longer — fired up to speak, 
he took his stand among the gathered men. 
The herald Pisenor, skilled in custom's ways, 
put the staff in his hand, and then the prince, 
addressing old Aegyptius first, led off with, "Sir, 
that man is not far off — you'll soon see for yourself — 
/ was the one who called us all together. 
Something wounds me deeply . . . 
not news I've heard of an army on the march, 
word I've caught firsthand so I can warn you now, 
or some other public matter I'll disclose and argue. 
No, the crisis is my own. Trouble has struck my house — 
a double blow. First, I have lost my noble father 
who ruled among you years ago, each of you here, 
and kindly as a father to his children. 

But now this, 



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a worse disaster that soon will grind my house down, 
ruin it all, and all my worldly goods in the bargain. 
Suitors plague my mother— against her will- 
sons of the very men who are your finest here! 
They'd sooner die than approach her father's house 
so Icarius himself might see to his daughter's bridal, 
hand her to whom he likes, whoever meets his fancy. 
Not they — they infest our palace day and night, 
they butcher our cattle, our sheep, our fat goats, 
feasting themselves sick, swilling our glowing wine 
as if there's no tomorrow — all of it, squandered. 
Now we have no man like Odysseus in command 
to drive this curse from the house. We ourselves? 
We're hardly the ones to fight them off. All we'd do 
is parade our wretched weakness. A boy inept at battle. 
Oh I'd swing to attack if I had the power in me. 
By god, it's intolerable, what they do— disgrace, 
my house a shambles! 

You should be ashamed yourselves, 
mortified in the face of neighbors living round about! 
Fear the gods' wrath— before they wheel in outrage 
and make these crimes recoil on your heads. 
I beg you by Olympian Zeus, by Themis too, 
who sets assemblies free and calls us into session — 
stop, my friends! Leave me alone to pine away in anguish . 
Unless, of course, you think my noble father Odysseus 
did the Achaean army damage, deliberate harm, 
and to pay me back you'd do me in, deliberately 
setting these parasites against me. Better for me 
if you were devouring all my treasure, all my cattle — 
if you were the ones, we'd make amends in no time. 
We'd approach you for reparations round the town, 
demanding our goods till you'd returned the lot. 
But now, look, you load my heart with grief — 
there's nothing I can do!" 

Filled with anger, 
down on the ground he dashed the speaker's scepter — 
bursting into tears. Pity seized the assembly. 



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All just sat there, silent . . . 

no one had the heart to reply with harshness. 

Only Antinous, who found it in himself to say, 

"So high and mighty, Telemachus — such unbridled rage! 

Well now, fling your accusations at us? 

Think to pin the blame on us? You think again. 

It's not the suitors here who deserve the blame, 

it's your own dear mother, the matchless queen of cunning. 

Look here. For three years now, getting on to four, 

she's played it fast and loose with all our hearts, 

building each man's hopes — 

dangling promises, dropping hints to each — 

but all the while with something else in mind. 

This was her latest masterpiece of guile: 

she set up a great loom in the royal halls 

and she began to weave, and the weaving finespun, 

the yarns endless, and she would lead us on: 'Young men, 

my suitors, now that King Odysseus is no more, 

go slowly, keen as you are to marry me, until 

I can finish off this web . . . 

so my weaving won't all fray and come to nothing. 

This is a shroud for old lord Laertes, for that day 

when the deadly fate that lays us out at last will take him down. 

I dread the shame my countrywomen would heap upon me, 

yes, if a man of such wealth should lie in state 

without a shroud for cover.' 

Her very words, 
and despite our pride and passion we believed her. 
So by day she'd weave at her great and growing web — 
by night, by the light of torches set beside her, 
she would unravel all she'd done. Three whole years 
she deceived us blind, seduced us with this scheme . . . 
Then, when the wheeling seasons brought the fourth year on, 
one of her women, in on the queen's secret, told the truth 
and we caught her in the act — unweaving her gorgeous web. 
So she finished it off. Against her will. We forced her. 

Now Telemachus, here is how the suitors answer you — 



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you burn it in your mind, you and all our people: 

send your mother back! Direct her to marry 

whomever her father picks, whoever pleases her. 

So long as she persists in tormenting us, 

quick to exploit the gifts Athena gave her — 

a skilled hand for elegant work, a fine mind 

and subtle wiles too — we've never heard the like, 

not even in old stories sung of all Achaea's 

well-coifed queens who graced the years gone by: 

Mycenae crowned with garlands, Tyro and Alcmena . . . 

Not one could touch Penelope for intrigue, 

but in this case she intrigued beyond all limits. 

So, we will devour your worldly goods and wealth 

as long as she holds out, holds to that course 

the gods have charted deep inside her heart. 

Great renown she wins for herself, no doubt, 

great loss for you in treasure. We'll not go back 

to our old estates or leave for other parts, 

not till she weds the Argive man she fancies." 

But with calm good sense Telemachus replied: 
"Antinous, how can I drive my mother from our house 
against her will, the one who bore me, reared me too? 
My father is worlds away, dead or alive, who knows? 
Imagine the high price I'd have to pay Icarius 
if all on my own I send my mother home. 
Oh what I would suffer from her father — 
and some dark god would hurt me even more 
when mother, leaving her own house behind, 
calls down her withering Furies on my head, 
and our people's cries of shame would hound my heels. 
I will never issue that ultimatum to my mother. 
And you, if you have any shame in your own hearts, 
you must leave my palace! See to your feasting elsewhere, 
devour your own possessions, house to house by turns. 
But if you decide the fare is better, richer here, 
destroying one man's goods and going scot-free, 
all right then, carve away! 



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BOOK 2! TELEMACHUS SETS SAIL 



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But I'll cry out to the everlasting gods in hopes 

that Zeus will pay you back with a vengeance — all of you 

destroyed in my house while I go scot-free myself!" 

And to seal his prayer, farseeing Zeus sent down a sign. 
He launched two eagles soaring high from a mountain ridge 
and down they glided, borne on the wind's draft a moment, 
wing to wingtip, pinions straining taut till just 
above the assembly's throbbing hum they whirled, 
suddenly, wings thrashing, wild onslaught of wings 
and banking down at the crowd's heads — a glaring, fatal sign- 
talons slashing each other, tearing cheeks and throats 
they swooped away on the right through homes and city. 
All were dumbstruck, watching the eagles trail from sight, 
people brooding, deeply, what might come to pass . . . 
Until the old warrior Halitherses, 
Mastor's son, broke the silence for them: 
the one who outperformed all men of his time 
at reading bird-signs, sounding out the omens, 
rose and spoke, distraught for each man there: 
"Hear me, men of Ithaca! Hear what I have to say, 
though my revelations strike the suitors first of all — 
a great disaster is rolling like a breaker toward their heads. 
Clearly Odysseus won't be far from loved ones any longer — 
now, right now, he's somewhere near, I tell you, 
breeding bloody death for all these suitors here, 
pains aplenty too for the rest of us who live 
in Ithaca's sunlit air. 

Long before that, 
we must put heads together, find some way 
to stop these men, or let them stop themselves. 
Better for them that way, by far. I myself 
am no stranger to prophecy — I can see it now! 
Odysseus ... all is working out for him, I say, 
just as I said it would that day the Argives sailed 
for Troy and the mastermind of battle boarded with them. 
I said then: after many blows, and all his shipmates lost, 
after twenty years had wheeled by, he would come home, 



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unrecognized by all . . . 

and now, look, it all comes to pass!" 

"Stop, old man!" 

Eurymachus, Polybus' son, rose up to take him on. 

"Go home and babble your omens to your children — 

save them from some catastrophe coming soon. 

I'm a better hand than you at reading portents. 

Flocks of birds go fluttering under the sun's rays, 

not all are fraught with meaning. Odysseus? 

He's dead now, far from home — 

would to god that you'd died with him too. 

We'd have escaped your droning prophecies then 

and the way you've loosed the dogs of this boy's anger — 

your eyes peeled for a house-gift he might give you. 

Here's my prophecy, bound to come to pass. 

If you, you old codger, wise as the ages, 
talk him round, incite the boy to riot, 
he'll be the first to suffer, let me tell you. 
And you, old man, we'll clap some fine on you 
you'll weep to pay, a fine to crush your spirit! 

Telemachus? 
Here in front of you all, here's my advice for him. 
Let him urge his mother back to her father's house — 
her kin will arrange the wedding, provide the gifts, 
the array that goes with a daughter dearly loved. 
Not till then, I'd say, will the island princes quit 
their taxing courtship. Who's there to fear? I ask you. 
Surely not Telemachus, with all his tiresome threats. 
Nor do we balk, old man, at the prophecies you mouth — 
they'll come to grief, they'll make us hate you more. 
The prince's wealth will be devoured as always, 
mercilessly — no reparations, ever . . . not 
while the queen drags out our hopes to wed her, 
waiting, day after day, all of us striving hard 
to win one matchless beauty. Never courting others, 
bevies of brides who'd suit each noble here." 

Telemachus answered, firm in his resolve: 



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"Eurymachus — the rest of you fine, brazen suitors — 
I have done with appeals to you about these matters. 
I'll say no more. The gods know how things stand 
and so do all the Achaeans. And now all I ask 
is a good swift ship and a crew of twenty men 
to speed me through my passage out and back. 
I'm sailing off to Sparta, sandy Pylos too, 
for news of my long-lost father's journey home. 
Someone may tell me something 
or I may catch a rumor straight from Zeus, 
rumor that carries news to men like nothing else. 
Now, if I hear my father's alive and heading home, 
hard-pressed as I am, I'll brave out one more year. 
If I hear he's dead, no longer among the living, 
then back I'll come to the native land I love, 
raise his grave-mound, build his honors high 
with the full funeral rites that he deserves — 
and give my mother to another husband." 

A declaration, 
and the prince sat down as Mentor took the floor, 
Odysseus' friend-in-arms to whom the king, 
sailing off to Troy, committed his household, 
ordering one and all to obey the old man 
and he would keep things steadfast and secure. 
With deep concern for the realm, he rose and warned, 
"Hear me, men of Ithaca. Hear what I have to say. 
Never let any sceptered king be kind and gentle now, 
not with all his heart, or set his mind on justice — 
no, let him be cruel and always practice outrage. 
Think: not one of the people whom he ruled 
remembers Odysseus now, that godlike man, 
and kindly as a father to his children! 
I don't grudge these arrogant suitors for a moment, 
weaving their violent work with all their wicked hearts — 
they lay their lives on the line when they consume 
Odysseus' worldly goods, blind in their violence, 
telling themselves that he'll come home no more. 
But all the rest of you, how you rouse my fury! 



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Sitting here in silence . . . 

never a word put forth to curb these suitors, 

paltry few as they are and you so many." 

"Mentor!" 
Euenor's son Leocritus rounded on him, shouting, 
"Rabble-rousing fool, now what's this talk? 
Goading them on to try and hold us back! 
It's uphill work, I warn you, 
fighting a force like ours — for just a meal. 
Even if Odysseus of Ithaca did arrive in person, 
to find us well-bred suitors feasting in his halls, 
and the man were hell-bent on routing us from the palace — 
little joy would his wife derive from his return, 
for all her yearning. Here on the spot he'd meet 
a humiliating end if he fought against such odds. 
You're talking nonsense — idiocy. 

No more. Come, 
dissolve the assembly. Each man return to his holdings. 
Mentor and Halitherses can speed our young prince on, 
his father's doddering friends since time began. 
He'll sit tight a good long while, I trust, 
scrabbling for news right here in Ithaca — 
he'll never make that trip." 

This broke up the assembly, keen to leave. 
The people scattered quickly, each to his own house, 
while the suitors strolled back to King Odysseus' palace. 

Telemachus, walking the beach now, far from others, 
washed his hands in the foaming surf and prayed to Pallas: 
"Dear god, hear me! Yesterday you came to my house, 
you told me to ship out on the misty sea and learn 
if father, gone so long, is ever coming home . . . 
Look how my countrymen — the suitors most of all, 
the pernicious bullies — foil each move I make." 

Athena came to his prayer from close at hand, 
for all the world with Mentor's build and voice, 



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and she urged him on with winging words: "Telemachus, 

you'll lack neither courage nor sense from this day on, 

not if your father's spirit courses through your veins — 

now there was a man, I'd say, in words and action both! 

So how can your journey end in shipwreck or defeat? 

Only if you were not his stock, Penelope's too, 

then I'd fear your hopes might come to grief. 

Few sons are the equals of their fathers; 

most fall short, all too few surpass them. 310 

But you, brave and adept from this day on — 

Odysseus' cunning has hardly given out in you — 

there's every hope that you will reach your goal. 

Put them out of your mind, these suitors' schemes and plots. 

They're madmen. Not a shred of sense or decency in the crowd. 

Nor can they glimpse the death and black doom hovering 

just at their heads to crush them all in one short day. 

But you, the journey that stirs you now is not far off, 

not with the likes of me, your father's friend and yours, 

to rig you a swift ship and be your shipmate too. 320 

Now home you go and mix with the suitors there. 

But get your rations ready, 

pack them all in vessels, the wine in jars, 

and barley-meal — the marrow of men's bones — 

in durable skins, while I make rounds in town 

and quickly enlist your crew of volunteers. 

Lots of ships in seagirt Ithaca, old and new. 

I'll look them over, choose the best in sight, 

we'll fit her out and launch her into the sea at once!" 

And so Athena, daughter of Zeus, assured him. 330 

No lingering now — he heard the goddess' voice — 
but back he went to his house with aching heart 
and there at the palace found the brazen suitors 
skinning goats in the courtyard, singeing pigs for roasting. 
Antinous, smiling warmly, sauntered up to the prince, 
grasped his hand and coaxed him, savoring his name: 
"Telemachus, my high and mighty, fierce young friend, 
no more nursing those violent words and actions now. 



[305-37] 



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Come, eat and drink with us, just like the old days. 
Whatever you want our people will provide. A ship 
and a picked crew to speed you to holy Pylos, 
out for the news about your noble father." 

But self-possessed Telemachus drew the line: 
"Antinous, now how could I dine with you in peace 
and take my pleasure? You ruffians carousing here! 
Isn't it quite enough that you, my mother's suitors, 
have ravaged it all, my very best, these many years, 
while I was still a boy? But now that I'm full-grown 
and can hear the truth from others, absorb it too — 
now, yes, that the anger seethes inside me . . . 
I'll stop at nothing to hurl destruction at your heads, 
whether I go to Pylos or sit tight here at home. 
But the trip I speak of will not end in failure. 
Go I will, as a passenger, nothing more, 
since I don't seem to command my own crew. 
That, I'm sure, is the way that suits you best." 

With this 
he nonchalantly drew his hand from Antinous' hand 
while the suitors, busy feasting in the halls, 
mocked and taunted him, flinging insults now. 
"God help us," one young buck kept shouting, 
"he wants to slaughter us all! 
He's off to sandy Pylos to hire cutthroats, 
even Sparta perhaps, so hot to have our heads. 
Why, he'd rove as far as Ephyra's dark rich soil 
and run back home with lethal poison, slip it 
into the bowl and wipe us out with drink!" 

"Who knows?" another young blade up and ventured. 
"Off in that hollow ship of his, he just might drown, 
far from his friends, a drifter like his father. 
What a bore! He'd double our work for us, 
splitting up his goods, parceling out his house 
to his mother and the man who weds the queen." 

So they scoffed 



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but Telemachus headed down to his father's storeroom, 
broad and vaulted, piled high with gold and bronze, 
chests packed with clothing, vats of redolent oil. 
And there, standing in close ranks against the wall, 
were jars of seasoned, mellow wine, holding the drink 
unmixed inside them, fit for a god, waiting the day 
Odysseus, worn by hardships, might come home again. 
Doors, snugly fitted, doubly hung, were bolted shut 
and a housekeeper was in charge by night and day — 
her care, her vigilance, guarding all those treasures — 
Eurycleia the daughter of Ops, Pisenor's son. 
Telemachus called her into the storeroom: "Come, nurse, 
draw me off some wine in smaller traveling jars, 
mellow, the finest vintage you've been keeping, 
next to what you reserve for our unlucky king — 
in case Odysseus might drop in from the blue 
and cheat the deadly spirits, make it home. 
Fill me an even dozen, seal them tightly. 
Pour me barley in well-stitched leather bags, 
twenty measures of meal, your stone-ground best. 
But no one else must know. These rations now, 
put them all together. I'll pick them up myself, 
toward evening, just about the time that mother 
climbs to her room and thinks of turning in. 
I'm sailing off to Sparta, sandy Pylos too, 
for news of my dear father's journey home. 
Perhaps I'll catch some rumor." 

A wail of grief — 
and his fond old nurse burst out in protest, sobbing: 
"Why, dear child, what craziness got into your head? 
Why bent on rambling over the face of the earth? — 
a darling only son! Your father's worlds away, 
god's own Odysseus, dead in some strange land. 
And these brutes here, just wait, the moment you're gone 
they'll all be scheming against you. Kill you by guile, 
they will, and carve your birthright up in pieces. 
No, sit tight here, guard your own things here. 
Don't go roving over the barren salt sea — 



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no need to suffer so!" 

"Courage, old woman," 
thoughtful Telemachus tried to reassure her, 
"there's a god who made this plan. 
But swear you won't say anything to my mother. 
Not till ten or a dozen days have passed 
or she misses me herself and learns I'm gone. 
She mustn't mar her lovely face with tears." 

The old one swore a solemn oath to the gods 
and vowing she would never breathe a word, 
quickly drew off wine in two -eared jars 
and poured barley in well-stitched leather bags. 
Telemachus returned to the hall and joined the suitors. 

Then bright-eyed Pallas thought of one more step. 
Disguised as the prince, the goddess roamed through town, 
pausing beside each likely crewman, giving orders: 
"Gather beside our ship at nightfall — be there." 
She asked Noemon, Phronius' generous son, 
to lend her a swift ship. He gladly volunteered. 

The sun sank and the roads of the world grew dark. 
Now the goddess hauled the swift ship down to the water, 
stowed in her all the tackle well-rigged vessels carry, 
moored her well away at the harbor's very mouth 
and once the crew had gathered, rallying round, 
she heartened every man. 

Then bright-eyed Pallas thought of one last thing. 
Back she went to King Odysseus' halls and there 
she showered sweet oblivion over the suitors, 
dazing them as they drank, knocking cups from hands. 
No more loitering now, their eyes weighed down with sleep, 
they rose and groped through town to find their beds. 
But calling the prince outside his timbered halls, 
taking the build and voice of Mentor once again, 
flashing-eyed Athena urged him on: "Telemachus, 



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your comrades-at-arms are ready at the oars, 
waiting for your command to launch. So come, 
on with our voyage now, we're wasting time." 

And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead 
as he followed in her footsteps, man and goddess. 
Once they reached the ship at the water's edge 
they found their long-haired shipmates on the beach. 
The prince, inspired, gave his first commands: 450 

"Come, friends, get the rations aboard! 
They're piled in the palace now. 

My mother knows nothing of this. No servants either. 
Only one has heard our plan." 

He led them back 
and the men fell in and fetched down all the stores 
and stowed them briskly, deep in the well-ribbed holds 
as Odysseus' son directed. Telemachus climbed aboard. 
Athena led the way, assuming the pilot's seat 
reserved astern, and he sat close beside her. 

Cables cast off, the crew swung to the oarlocks. 460 

Bright-eyed Athena sent them a stiff following wind 
rippling out of the west, ruffling over the wine-dark sea 
as Telemachus shouted out commands to all his shipmates: 
"All lay hands to tackle!" They sprang to orders, 
hoisting the pinewood mast, they stepped it firm 
in its block amidships, lashed it fast with stays 
and with braided rawhide halyards hauled the white sail high. 
Suddenly wind hit full and the canvas bellied out 
and a dark blue wave, foaming up at the bow, 

sang out loud and strong as the ship made way, 470 

skimming the whitecaps, cutting toward her goal. 
All running gear secure in the swift black craft, 
they set up bowls and brimmed them high with wine 
and poured libations out to the everlasting gods 
who never die — to Athena first of all, 
the daughter of Zeus with flashing sea-gray eyes — 
and the ship went plunging all night long and through the dawn. 



BOOK THREE 




King Nestor 
Remembers 

/Vs the sun sprang up, leaving the brilliant waters in its wake, 

climbing the bronze sky to shower light on immortal gods 

and mortal men across the plowlands ripe with grain — 

the ship pulled into Pylos, Neleus' storied citadel, 

where the people lined the beaches, 

sacrificing sleek black bulls to Poseidon, 

god of the sea-blue mane who shakes the earth. 

They sat in nine divisions, each five hundred strong, 

each division offering up nine bulls, and while the people 

tasted the innards, burned the thighbones for the god, 

the craft and crew came heading straight to shore. 

Striking sail, furling it in the balanced ship, 

they moored her well and men swung down on land. 

Telemachus climbed out last, Athena far in front 

and the bright-eyed goddess urged the prince along: 



10 



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"Telemachus, no more shyness, this is not the time! 
We sailed the seas for this, for news of your father — 
where does he lie buried? what fate did he meet? 
So go right up to Nestor, breaker of horses. 
We'll make him yield the secrets of his heart. 
Press him yourself to tell the whole truth: 
he'll never lie — the man is far too wise." 



[14-45] 



20 



The prince replied, wise in his own way too, 
"How can I greet him, Mentor, even approach the king? 
I'm hardly adept at subtle conversation. 
Someone my age might feel shy, what's more, 
interrogating an older man." 

"Telemachus," 
the bright- eyed goddess Athena reassured him, 
"some of the words you'll find within yourself, 
the rest some power will inspire you to say. 
You least of all — I know — 
were born and reared without the gods' good will." 



30 



And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead 
as he followed in her footsteps — man and goddess 
gained the place where the Pylians met and massed. 
There sat Nestor among his sons as friends around them 
decked the banquet, roasted meats and skewered strips for broiling. 
As soon as they saw the strangers, all came crowding down, 
waving them on in welcome, urging them to sit. 
Nestor's son Pisistratus, first to reach them, 
grasped their hands and sat them down at the feast 
on fleecy throws spread out along the sandbanks, 
flanking his brother Thrasymedes and his father. 
He gave them a share of innards, poured some wine 
in a golden cup and, lifting it warmly toward Athena, 
daughter of Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder, 
greeted the goddess now with an invitation: 
"Say a prayer to lord Poseidon, stranger, 
his is the feast you've found on your arrival. 
But once you've made your libation and your prayer — 



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all according to ancient custom — hand this cup 
of hearty, seasoned wine to your comrade here 
so he can pour forth too. He too, I think, 
should pray to the deathless ones himself. 
All men need the gods . . . 
but the man is younger, just about my age. 
That's why I give the gold cup first to you." 

With that 
Pisistratus placed in her hand the cup of mellow wine 
and Pallas rejoiced at the prince's sense of tact 
in giving the golden winecup first to her. 
At once she prayed intensely to Poseidon: 
"Hear me, Sea-lord, you who embrace the earth — 
don't deny our wishes, bring our prayers to pass! 
First, then, to Nestor and all his sons grant glory. 
Then to all these Pylians, for their splendid rites 
grant a reward that warms their gracious hearts. 
Last, Poseidon, grant Telemachus and myself 
safe passage home, the mission accomplished 
that sped us here in our rapid black ship." 



60 



So she prayed, and brought it all to pass. 
She offered the rich two-handled cup to Telemachus, 
Odysseus' son, who echoed back her prayer word for word. 
They roasted the prime cuts, pulled them off the spits 
and sharing out the portions, fell to the royal feast. 
Once they'd put aside desire for food and drink, 
old Nestor the noble charioteer began, at last: 
"Now's the time, now they've enjoyed their meal, 
to probe our guests and find out who they are. 
Strangers — friends, who are you? 
Where did you sail from, over the running sea-lanes? 
Out on a trading spree or roving the waves like pirates, 
sea-wolves raiding at will, who risk their lives 
to plunder other men?" 

Poised Telemachus answered, 
filled with heart, the heart Athena herself inspired, 
to ask for the news about his father, gone so long, 



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[78-109] 



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and make his name throughout the mortal world. 

"Nestor, son of Neleus, Achaea's pride and glory — 

where are we from, you ask? I will tell you all. 

We hail from Ithaca, under the heights of Nion. 

Our mission here is personal, nothing public now. 

I am on the trail of my father's widespread fame, 

you see, searching the earth to catch some news 

of great-hearted King Odysseus who, they say, 

fought with you to demolish Troy some years ago. 

About all the rest who fought the Trojans there, 

we know where each one died his wretched death, 

but father . . . even his death — 

the son of Cronus shrouds it all in mystery. 

No one can say for certain where he died, 

whether he went down on land at enemy hands 

or out on the open sea in Amphitrite's breakers. 

That's why I've come to plead before you now, 

if you can tell me about his cruel death: 

perhaps you saw him die with your own eyes 

or heard the wanderer's end from someone else. 

More than all other men, that man was born for pain. 

Don't soften a thing, from pity, respect for me — 

tell me, clearly, all your eyes have witnessed. 

I beg you — if ever my father, lord Odysseus, 

pledged you his word and made it good in action 

once on the fields of Troy where you Achaeans suffered, 

remember his story now, tell me the truth." 

Nestor the noble charioteer replied at length: 
"Ah dear boy, since you call back such memories, 
such living hell we endured in distant Troy — 
we headstrong fighting forces of Achaea — 
so many raids from shipboard down the foggy sea, 
cruising for plunder, wherever Achilles led the way; 
so many battles round King Priam's walls we fought, 
so many gone, our best and bravest fell. 
There Ajax lies, the great man of war. 



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120 



There lies Achilles too. 

There Patroclus, skilled as the gods in counsel. 

And there my own dear son, both strong and staunch, 

Antilochus — lightning on his feet and every inch a fighter! 

But so many other things we suffered, past that count — 

what mortal in this wide world could tell it all? 

Not if you sat and probed his memory, five, six years, 

delving for all the pains our brave Achaeans bore there. 

Your patience would fray, you'd soon head for home . . . 

Nine years we wove a web of disaster for those Trojans, 
pressing them hard with every tactic known to man, 
and only after we slaved did Zeus award us victory. 
And no one there could hope to rival Odysseus, 
not for sheer cunning — 
at every twist of strategy he excelled us all. 
Your father, yes, if you are in fact his son . . . 
I look at you and a sense of wonder takes me. 
Your way with words — it's just like his — I'd swear 
no youngster could ever speak like you, so apt, so telling. 
As long as I and great Odysseus soldiered there, 
never once did we speak out at odds, 
neither in open muster nor in royal council: 
forever one in mind, in judgment balanced, shrewd, 
we mapped our armies' plans so things might turn out best. 
But then, once we'd sacked King Priam's craggy city, 
Zeus contrived in his heart a fatal homeward run 
for all the Achaeans who were fools, at least, 
dishonest too, so many met a disastrous end, 
thanks to the lethal rage 
of the mighty Father's daughter. Eyes afire, 
Athena set them feuding, Atreus' two sons . . . 
They summoned all the Achaean ranks to muster, 
rashly, just at sunset — no hour to rally troops — 
and in they straggled, sodden with wine, our heroes. 
The brothers harangued them, told them why they'd met: 
a crisis — Menelaus urging the men to fix their minds 



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[142-75] 



on the voyage home across the sea's broad back, 

but it brought no joy to Agamemnon, not at all. 

He meant to detain us there and offer victims, 160 

anything to appease Athena's dreadful wrath — 

poor fool, he never dreamed Athena would not comply. 

The minds of the everlasting gods don't change so quickly. 

So the two of them stood there, wrangling, back and forth 

till the armies sprang up, their armor clashing, ungodly uproar — 

two plans split the ranks. That night we barely slept, 

seething with hard feelings against our own comrades, 

for Zeus was brooding over us, poised to seal our doom . . . 

At dawn, half of us hauled our vessels down to sea, 

we stowed our plunder, our sashed and lovely women. 170 

But half the men held back, camped on the beach, 

waiting it out for Agamemnon's next commands 

while our contingent embarked — 

we pushed off and sailed at a fast clip 

as a god smoothed out the huge troughing swells. 

We reached Tenedos quickly, sacrificed to the gods, 

the crews keen for home, but a quick return was not 

in Zeus's plans, not yet: that cruel power 

loosed a cursed feud on us once again. 

Some swung their rolling warships hard about — iso 

Odysseus sailed them back, the flexible, wily king, 

veering over to Agamemnon now to shore his fortunes up. 

Not I. Massing the ships that came in my flotilla, 

/ sped away as the god's mischief kept on brewing, 

dawning on me now. And Tydeus' fighting son 

Diomedes fled too, rousing all his comrades. 

Late in the day the red-haired Menelaus joined us, 

overtook us at Lesbos, debating the long route home: 

whether to head north, over the top of rocky Chios, 

skirting Psyrie, keeping that island off to port 190 

or run south of Chios, by Mimas' gusty cape. 

We asked the god for a sign. He showed us one, 

he urged us to cut out on the middle passage, 

straight to Euboea now, 

escape a catastrophe, fast as we could sail! 



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113 



A shrilling wind came up, stiff, driving us on 
and on we raced, over the sea-lanes rife with fish 
and we made Geraestus Point in the dead of night. 
Many thighs of bulls we offered Poseidon there — 
thank god we'd crossed that endless reach of sea. 
Then on the fourth day out the crews of Diomedes, 
breaker of horses, moored their balanced ships 
at Argos port, but I held course for Pylos, yes, 
and never once did the good strong wind go limp 
from the first day the god unleashed its blast. 

And so, dear boy, I made it home from Troy, 
in total ignorance, knowing nothing of their fates, 
the ones who stayed behind: 
who escaped with their lives and who went down. 
But all I've gathered by hearsay, sitting here 
in my own house — that you'll learn, it's only right, 
I'll hide nothing now. 

They say the Myrmidons, 
those savage spearmen led by the shining son 
of lionhearted Achilles, traveled home unharmed. 
Philoctetes the gallant son of Poias, safe as well. 
Idomeneus brought his whole contingent back to Crete, 
all who'd escaped the war — the sea snatched none from him. 
But Atreus' son Agamemnon . . . you yourselves, even 
in far-off Ithaca, must have heard how he returned, 
how Aegisthus hatched the king's horrendous death. 
But what a price he paid, in blood, in suffering. 
Ah how fine it is, when a man is brought down, 
to leave a son behind! Orestes took revenge, 
he killed that cunning, murderous Aegisthus, 
who'd killed his famous father. 

And you, my friend — 
how tall and handsome I see you now — be brave, you too, 
so men to come will sing your praises down the years." 

Telemachus, weighing the challenge closely, answered, 
"Oh Nestor, son of Neleus, Achaea's pride and glory, 



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[203-31] 



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what a stroke of revenge that was! All Achaeans 
will spread Orestes' fame across the world, 
a song for those to come. 
If only the gods would arm me in such power 
I'd take revenge on the lawless, brazen suitors 
riding roughshod over me, plotting reckless outrage. 
But for me the gods have spun out no such joy, 
for my father or myself. I must bear up, 
that's all." 

And the old charioteer replied, 
"Now that you mention it, dear boy, I do recall 
a mob of suitors, they say, besets your mother 
there in your own house, against your will, 
and plots your ruin. Tell me, though, do you 
let yourself be so abused, or do people round about, 
stirred up by the prompting of some god, despise you now? 
Who knows if he will return someday to take revenge 
on all their violence? Single-handed perhaps 
or with an Argive army at his back? If only 
the bright-eyed goddess chose to love you just 
as she lavished care on brave Odysseus, years ago 
in the land of Troy, where we Achaeans struggled! 
I've never seen the immortals show so much affection 
as Pallas openly showed him, standing by your father — 
if only she'd favor you, tend you with all her heart, 
many a suitor then would lose all thought of marriage, 
blotted out forever." 

"Never, your majesty," 
Telemachus countered gravely, "that will never 
come to pass, I know. What you say dumbfounds me, 
staggers imagination! Hope, hope as I will, 
that day will never dawn . . . 
not even if the gods should will it so." 

"Telemachus!" 
Pallas Athena broke in sharply, her eyes afire — 
"What's this nonsense slipping through your teeth? 
It's light work for a willing god to save a mortal 



230 



240 



250 



260 



even half the world away. Myself, I'd rather 
sail through years of trouble and labor home 
and see that blessed day, than hurry home 
to die at my own hearth like Agamemnon, 
killed by Aegisthus' cunning — by his own wife. 
But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods 
can defend a man, not even one they love, that day 
when fate takes hold and lays him out at last." 

"Mentor," 
wise Telemachus said, "distraught as we are for him, 
let's speak of this no more. My father's return? 
It's inconceivable now. Long ago the undying gods 
have sealed his death, his black doom. But now 
there's another question I would put to Nestor: 
Nestor excels all men for sense and justice, 
his knowledge of the world. 
Three generations he has ruled, they say, 
and to my young eyes he seems a deathless god! 
Nestor, son of Neleus, tell me the whole story — 
how did the great king Agamemnon meet his death? 
Where was Menelaus? What fatal trap did he set, 
that treacherous Aegisthus, to bring down a man 
far stronger than himself? Was Menelaus gone 
from Achaean Argos, roving the world somewhere, 
so the coward found the nerve to kill the king?" 

And old Nestor the noble charioteer replied: 
"Gladly, my boy, I'll tell you the story first to last . . . 
Right you are, you guess what would have happened 
if red-haired Menelaus, arriving back from Troy, 
had found Aegisthus alive in Agamemnon's palace. 
No barrow piled high on the earth for his dead body, 
no, the dogs and birds would have feasted on his corpse, 
sprawled on the plain outside the city gates, and no one, 
no woman in all Achaea, would have wept a moment, 
such a monstrous crime the man contrived! 
But there we were, camped at Troy, battling out 



270 



280 



290 



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[263-96] 



the long hard campaign while he at his ease at home, 

in the depths of Argos, stallion-country — he lay siege 300 

to the wife of Agamemnon, luring, enticing her with talk. 

At first, true, she spurned the idea of such an outrage, 

Clytemnestra the queen, her will was faithful still. 

And there was a man, what's more, a bard close by, 

to whom Agamemnon, setting sail for Troy, 

gave strict commands to guard his wife. But then, 

that day the doom of the gods had bound her to surrender, 

Aegisthus shipped the bard away to a desert island, 

marooned him there, sweet prize for the birds of prey, 

and swept her off to his own house, lover lusting for lover. 310 

And many thighbones he burned on the gods' holy altars, 

many gifts he hung on the temple walls — gold, brocades — 

in thanks for a conquest past his maddest hopes. 

Now we, 
you see, were sailing home from Troy in the same squadron, 
Menelaus and I, comrades-in-arms from years of war. 
But as we rounded holy Sounion, Athens' headland, 
lord Apollo attacked Atrides' helmsman, aye, 
with his gentle shafts he shot the man to death — 
an iron grip on the tiller, the craft scudding fast — 

Phrontis, Onetor's son, who excelled all men alive 320 

at steering ships when gales bore down in fury. 
So Menelaus, straining to sail on, was held back 
till he could bury his mate with fitting rites. 
But once he'd got off too, plowing the wine-dark sea 
in his ribbed ships, and made a run to Malea's beetling cape, 
farseeing Zeus decided to give the man rough sailing, 
poured a hurricane down upon him, shrilling winds, 
giant, rearing whitecaps, monstrous, mountains high. 
There at a stroke he cut the fleet in half and drove 

one wing to Crete, where Cydonians make their homes 330 

along the Iardanus River. Now, there's a sheer cliff 
plunging steep to the surf at the farthest edge of Gortyn, 
out on the mist-bound sea, where the South Wind piles breakers, 
huge ones, left of the headland's horn, toward Phaestos, 



[296-327] 



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117 



with only a low reef to block the crushing tides. 
In they sailed, and barely escaped their death — 
the ships' crews, that is — 
the rollers smashed their hulls against the rocks. 
But as for the other five with pitch-black prows, 
the wind and current swept them on toward Egypt. 



340 



So Menelaus, amassing a hoard of stores and gold, 
was off cruising his ships to foreign ports of call 
while Aegisthus hatched his vicious work at home. 
Seven years he lorded over Mycenae rich in gold, 
once he'd killed Agamemnon — he ground the people down. 
But the eighth year ushered in his ruin, Prince Orestes 
home from Athens, yes, he cut him down, that cunning, 
murderous Aegisthus, who'd killed his famous father. 
Vengeance done, he held a feast for the Argives, 
to bury his hated mother, craven Aegisthus too, 
the very day Menelaus arrived, lord of the warcry, 
freighted with all the wealth his ships could carry. 

So you, 
dear boy, take care. Don't rove from home too long, 
too far, leaving your own holdings unprotected — 
crowds in your palace so brazen 
they'll carve up all your wealth, devour it all, 
and then your journey here will come to nothing. 
Still I advise you, urge you to visit Menelaus. 
He's back from abroad at last, from people so removed 
you might abandon hope of ever returning home, 
once the winds had driven you that far off course, 
into a sea so vast not even cranes could wing their way 
in one year's flight — so vast it is, so awesome . . . 



350 



360 



So, off you go with your ships and shipmates now. 
Or if you'd rather go by land, there's team and chariot, 
my sons at your service too, and they'll escort you 
to sunny Lacedaemon, home of the red-haired king. 
Press him yourself to tell the whole truth: 



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[328-61] 



he'll never lie — the man is far too wise." 

So he closed 
as the sun set and darkness swept across the earth 370 

and the bright-eyed goddess Pallas spoke for all: 
"There was a tale, old soldier, so well told. 
Come, cut out the victims' tongues and mix the wine, 
so once we've poured libations out to the Sea-lord 
and every other god, we'll think of sleep. High time — 
the light's already sunk in the western shadows. 
It's wrong to linger long at the gods' feast; 
we must be on our way." 

Zeus's daughter — 
they all hung closely on every word she said. 

Heralds sprinkled water over their hands for rinsing, 380 

the young men brimmed the mixing bowls with wine, 
they tipped first drops for the god in every cup, 
then poured full rounds for all. They rose and flung 
the victims' tongues on the fire and poured libations out. 
When they'd poured, and drunk to their hearts' content, 
Athena and Prince Telemachus both started up 
to head for their ship at once. 
But Nestor held them there, objecting strongly: 
"Zeus forbid — and the other deathless gods as well — 
that you resort to your ship and put my house behind 390 

like a rank pauper's without a stitch of clothing, 
no piles of rugs, no blankets in his place 
for host and guests to slumber soft in comfort. 
Why, I've plenty of fine rugs and blankets here. 
No, by god, the true son of my good friend Odysseus 
won't bed down on a ship's deck, not while I'm alive 
or my sons are left at home to host our guests, 
whoever comes to our palace, newfound friends." 

"Dear old man, 
you're right," Athena exclaimed, her eyes brightening now. 
"Telemachus should oblige you. Much the better way. 400 

Let him follow you now, sleep in your halls, 
but I'll go back to our trim black ship, 



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hearten the crew and give each man his orders. 
I'm the only veteran in their ranks, I tell you. 
All the rest, of an age with brave Telemachus, 
are younger men who sailed with him as friends. 
I'll bed down there by the dark hull tonight, 
at dawn push off for the proud Cauconians. 
Those people owe me a debt long overdue, 
and no mean sum, believe me. 
But you, seeing my friend is now your guest, 
speed him on his way with a chariot and your son 
and give him the finest horses that you have, 
bred for stamina, trained to race the wind." 



410 



With that the bright-eyed goddess winged away 
in an eagle's form and flight. 
Amazement fell on all the Achaeans there. 
The old king, astonished by what he'd seen, 
grasped Telemachus' hand and cried out to the prince, 
"Dear boy — never fear you'll be a coward or defenseless, 
not if at your young age the gods will guard you so. 
Of all who dwell on Olympus, this was none but she, 
Zeus's daughter, the glorious one, his third born, 
who prized your gallant father among the Argives. 
Now, O Queen, be gracious! Give us high renown, 
myself, my children, my loyal wife and queen. 
I will make you a sacrifice, a yearling heifer 
broad in the brow, unbroken, never yoked by men. 
I'll offer it up to you — I'll sheathe its horns in gold." 



420 



So he prayed, and Pallas Athena heard his prayer. 
And Nestor the noble chariot-driver led them on, 
his sons and sons-in-law, back to his regal palace. 
Once they reached the storied halls of the aged king 
they sat on rows of low and high-backed chairs. 
As they arrived the old man mixed them all a bowl, 
stirring the hearty wine, seasoned eleven years 
before a servant broached it, loosed its seal. 



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[393-423] 



Mulling it in the bowl, old Nestor poured 
a libation out, praying hard to Pallas Athena, 
daughter of Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder. 



440 



Once they had poured their offerings, drunk their fill, 
the Pylians went to rest, each in his own house. 
But the noble chariot-driver let Telemachus, 
King Odysseus' son, sleep at the palace now, 
on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade, 
with Prince Pisistratus there beside him, 
the young spearman, already captain of armies, 
though the last son still unwed within the halls. 
The king retired to chambers deep in his lofty house 
where the queen his wife arranged and shared their bed. 



450 



When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 
old Nestor the noble chariot-driver climbed from bed, 
went out and took his seat on the polished stones, 
a bench glistening white, rubbed with glossy oil, 
placed for the king before his looming doors. 
There Neleus held his sessions years ago, 
a match for the gods in counsel, 
but his fate had long since forced him down to Death. 
Now royal Nestor in turn, Achaea's watch and ward, 
sat there holding the scepter while his sons, 
coming out of their chambers, clustered round him, 
hovering near: Echephron, Stratius, Perseus 
and Aretus, Thrasymedes like a god, and sixth, 
young lord Pisistratus came to join their ranks. 
They escorted Prince Telemachus in to sit beside them. 
Nestor, noble charioteer, began the celebration: 
"Quickly, my children, carry out my wishes now 
so I may please the gods, Athena first of all — 
she came to me at Poseidon's flowing feast, 
Athena in all her glory! 

Now someone go to the fields to fetch a heifer, 
lead her here at once — a herdsman drive her in. 
Someone hurry down to Prince Telemachus' black ship, 



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bring up all his crewmen, leave just two behind. 
And another tell our goldsmith, skilled Laerces, 
to come and sheathe the heifer's horns in gold. 
The rest stay here together. Tell the maids 
inside the hall to prepare a sumptuous feast — 
bring seats and firewood, bring pure water too." 



They all pitched in to carry out his orders. 
The heifer came from the fields, the crewmen came 
from brave Telemachus' ship, and the smith came in 
with all his gear in hand, the tools of his trade, 
the anvil, hammer and well-wrought tongs he used 
for working gold. And Athena came as well 
to attend her sacred rites. 
The old horseman passed the gold to the smith, 
and twining the foil, he sheathed the heifer's horns 
so the goddess' eyes might dazzle, delighted with the gift. 
Next Stratius and Echephron led the beast by the horns. 
Aretus, coming up from the storeroom, brought them 
lustral water filling a flower-braided bowl, 
in his other hand, the barley in a basket. 
Thrasymedes, staunch in combat, stood ready, 
whetted ax in his grasp to cut the heifer down, 
and Perseus held the basin for the blood. 
Now Nestor the old charioteer began the rite. 
Pouring the lustral water, scattering barley-meal, 
he lifted up his ardent prayers to Pallas Athena, 
launching the sacrifice, flinging onto the fire 
the first tufts of hair from the victim's head. 



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490 



500 



Prayers said, the scattering barley strewn, 
suddenly Nestor's son impetuous Thrasymedes 
strode up close and struck — the ax chopped 
the neck tendons through — 

and the blow stunned 
the heifer's strength — 

The women shrilled their cry, 
Nestor's daughters, sons' wives and his own loyal wife 



122 



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[452S4] 



Eurydice, Clymenus' eldest daughter. Then, hoisting up 

the victim's head from the trampled earth, they held her fast 

as the captain of men Pisistratus slashed her throat. 510 

Dark blood gushed forth, life ebbed from her limbs — 

they quartered her quickly, cut the thighbones out 

and all according to custom wrapped them round in fat, 

a double fold sliced clean and topped with strips of flesh. 

And the old king burned these over dried split wood 

and over the fire poured out glistening wine 

while young men at his side held five-pronged forks. 

Once they'd burned the bones and tasted the organs, 

they sliced the rest into pieces, spitted them on skewers 

and raising points to the fire, broiled all the meats. 520 

During the ritual lovely Polycaste, youngest daughter 
of Nestor, Neleus' son, had bathed Telemachus. 
Rinsing him off now, rubbing him down with oil, 
she drew a shirt and handsome cape around him. 
Out of his bath he stepped, glowing like a god, 
strode in and sat by the old commander Nestor. 



They roasted the prime cuts, pulled them off the spits 
and sat down to the feast while ready stewards saw 
to rounds of wine and kept the gold cups flowing. 
When they'd put aside desire for food and drink, 
Nestor the noble chariot-driver issued orders: 
"Hurry, my boys! Bring Telemachus horses, 
a good full-maned team — 
hitch them to a chariot — he must be off at once." 



530 



They listened closely, snapped to his commands 
and hitched a rapid team to a chariot's yoke in haste. 
A housekeeper stowed some bread and wine aboard 
and meats too, food fit for the sons of kings. 
Telemachus vaulted onto the splendid chariot — 
right beside him Nestor's son Pisistratus, 
captain of armies, boarded, seized the reins, 
whipped the team to a run and on the horses flew, 



540 



[484-971 



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123 



holding nothing back, out into open country, 
leaving the heights of Pylos fading in their trail, 
shaking the yoke across their shoulders all day long. 

The sun sank and the roads of the world grew dark 
as they reached Phera, pulling up to Diodes' halls, 
the son of Ortilochus, son of the Alpheus River. 
He gave them a royal welcome; there they slept the night. 

When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 
they yoked their pair again, mounted the blazoned car 
and out through the gates and echoing colonnade 
they whipped the team to a run and on they flew, 
holding nothing back — and the princes reached 
the wheatlands, straining now for journey's end, 
so fast those purebred stallions raced them on 
as the sun sank and the roads of the world grew dark. 



550 



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The King and Queen 
of Sparta 



A, 



a last they gained the ravines of Lacedaemon ringed by hills 
and drove up to the halls of Menelaus in his glory. 
They found the king inside his palace, celebrating 
with throngs of kinsmen a double wedding-feast 
for his son and lovely daughter. The princess 
he was sending on to the son of great Achilles, 
breaker of armies. Years ago Menelaus vowed, 
he nodded assent at Troy and pledged her hand, 
and now the gods were sealing firm the marriage. 
So he was sending her on her way with team and chariot, 
north to the Myrmidons' famous city governed by her groom. 
From Sparta he brought Alector's daughter as the bride 
for his own full-grown son, the hardy Megapenthes, 
born to him by a slave. To Helen the gods had granted 
no more offspring once she had borne her first child, 



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125 



the breathtaking Hermione, 

a luminous beauty gold as Aphrodite. 

So now 
they feasted within the grand, high-roofed palace, 
all the kin and clansmen of Menelaus in his glory, 
reveling warmly here as in their midst 
an inspired bard sang out and struck his lyre — 
and through them a pair of tumblers dashed and sprang, 
whirling in leaping handsprings, leading on the dance. 

The travelers, Nestor's shining son and Prince Telemachus, 
had brought themselves and their horses to a standstill 
just outside the court when good lord Eteoneus, 
passing through the gates now, saw them there, 
and the ready aide-in-arms of Menelaus 
took the message through his sovereign's halls 
and stepping close to his master broke the news: 
"Strangers have just arrived, your majesty, Menelaus. 
Two men, but they look like kin of mighty Zeus himself. 
Tell me, should we unhitch their team for them 
or send them to someone free to host them well?" 



20 



30 



The red-haired king took great offense at that: 
"Never a fool before, Eteoneus, son of Boethous, 
now I see you're babbling like a child! 
Just think of all the hospitality we enjoyed 
at the hands of other men before we made it home, 
and god save us from such hard treks in years to come. 
Quick, unhitch their team. And bring them in, 
strangers, guests, to share our flowing feast." 



40 



Back through the halls he hurried, calling out 
to other brisk attendants to follow quickly. 
They loosed the sweating team from under the yoke, 
tethered them fast by reins inside the horse-stalls, 
tossing feed at their hoofs, white barley mixed with wheat, 
and canted the chariot up against the polished walls, 
shimmering in the sun, then ushered in their guests, 



126 



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[43-76] 



into that magnificent place. Both struck by the sight, 50 

they marveled up and down the house of the warlord dear to Zeus — 

a radiance strong as the moon or rising sun came flooding 

through the high-roofed halls of illustrious Menelaus. 

Once they'd feasted their eyes with gazing at it all, 

into the burnished tubs they climbed and bathed. 

When women had washed them, rubbed them down with oil 

and drawn warm fleece and shirts around their shoulders, 

they took up seats of honor next to Atrides Menelaus. 

A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher 

and over a silver basin tipped it out 60 

so they might rinse their hands, 

then pulled a gleaming table to their side. 

A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve them, 

appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. 

As a carver lifted platters of meat toward them, 

meats of every sort, and set before them golden cups, 

the red-haired king Menelaus greeted both guests warmly: 

"Help yourselves to food, and welcome! Once you've dined 

we'll ask you who you are. But your parents' blood 

is hardly lost in you. You must be born of kings, 70 

bred by the gods to wield the royal scepter. 

No mean men could sire sons like you." 

With those words 
he passed them a fat rich loin with his own hands, 
the choicest part, that he'd been served himself. 
They reached for the good things that lay outspread 
and when they'd put aside desire for food and drink, 
Telemachus, leaning his head close to Nestor's son, 
spoke low to the prince so no one else could hear: 
"Look, Pisistratus— joy of my heart, my friend — 

the sheen of bronze, the blaze of gold and amber, so 

silver, ivory too, through all this echoing mansion! 
Surely Zeus's court on Olympus must be just like this, 
the boundless glory of all this wealth inside! 
My eyes dazzle ... I am struck with wonder." 



But the red-haired warlord overheard his guest 



[77-108] 



BOOK 4: THE KING AND QUEEN OF SPARTA 



127 



and cut in quickly with winged words for both: 

"No man alive could rival Zeus, dear boys, 

with his everlasting palace and possessions. 

But among men, I must say, few if any 

could rival me in riches. Believe me, 

much I suffered, many a mile I roved to haul 

such treasures home in my ships. Eight years out, 

wandering off as far as Cyprus, Phoenicia, even Egypt, 

I reached the Ethiopians, Sidonians, Erembians — Libya too, 

where lambs no sooner spring from the womb than they grow horns. 

Three times in the circling year the ewes give birth. 

So no one, neither king nor shepherd could want 

for cheese or mutton, or sweet milk either, 

udders swell for the sucklings round the year. 



90 



But while I roamed those lands, amassing a fortune, 100 

a stranger killed my brother, blind to the danger, duped blind — 
thanks to the cunning of his cursed, murderous queen! 
So I rule all this wealth with no great joy. 
You must have heard my story from your fathers, 
whoever they are — what hardships I endured, 
how I lost this handsome palace built for the ages, 
filled to its depths with hoards of gorgeous things. 
Well, would to god I'd stayed right here in my own house 
with a third of all that wealth and they were still alive, 
all who died on the wide plain of Troy those years ago, 1 10 

far from the stallion-land of Argos. 

And still, 
much as I weep for all my men, grieving sorely, 
time and again, sitting here in the royal halls, 
now indulging myself in tears, now brushing tears away — 
the grief that numbs the spirit gluts us quickly — 
for none of all those comrades, pained as I am, 
do I grieve as much for one . . . 
that man who makes sleep hateful, even food, 
as I pore over his memory. No one, no Achaean, 

labored hard as Odysseus labored or achieved so much. 120 

And how did his struggles end? In suffering for that man; 



128 



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[108-42] 



[173-74] 



BOOK 4: THE KING AND QUEEN OF SPARTA 



for me, in relentless, heartbreaking grief for him, 
lost and gone so long now — dead or alive, who knows? 
How they must mourn him too, Laertes, the old man, 
and self-possessed Penelope. Telemachus as well, 
the boy he left a babe in arms at home." 

Such memories 
stirred in the young prince a deep desire to grieve 
for Odysseus. Tears streamed down his cheeks 
and wet the ground when he heard his father's name, 
both hands clutching his purple robe before his eyes. 
Menelaus recognized him at once but pondered deeply 
whether to let him state his father's name 
or probe him first and prompt him step by step. 

While he debated all this now within himself, 
Helen emerged from her scented, lofty chamber — 
striking as Artemis with her golden shafts — 
and a train of women followed . . . 
Adreste drew up her carved reclining -chair, 
Alcippe brought a carpet of soft-piled fleece, 
Phylo carried her silver basket given by Alcandre, 
King Polybus' wife, who made his home in Egyptian Thebes 
where the houses overflow with the greatest troves of treasure. 
The king gave Menelaus a pair of bathing-tubs in silver, 
two tripods, ten bars of gold, and apart from these 
his wife presented Helen her own precious gifts: 
a golden spindle, a basket that ran on casters, 
solid silver polished off with rims of gold. 
Now Phylo her servant rolled it in beside her, 
heaped to the brim with yarn prepared for weaving; 
the spindle swathed in violet wool lay tipped across it. 
Helen leaned back in her chair, a stool beneath her feet, 
and pressed her husband at once for each detail: 
"Do we know, my lord Menelaus, who our visitors 
claim to be, our welcome new arrivals? 
Right or wrong, what can I say? My heart tells me 
to come right out and say I've never seen such a likeness, 
neither in man nor woman — I'm amazed at the sight. 



130 



140 



150 



To the life he's like the son of great Odysseus, 
surely he's Telemachus! The boy that hero left 
a babe in arms at home when all you Achaeans 
fought at Troy, launching your headlong battles 
just for my sake, shameless whore that I was." 

"My dear, my dear," the red-haired king assured her, 
"now that you mention it, I see the likeness too . . . 
Odysseus' feet were like the boy's, his hands as well, 
his glancing eyes, his head, and the fine shock of hair. 
Yes, and just now, as I was talking about Odysseus, 
remembering how he struggled, suffered, all for me, 
a flood of tears came streaming down his face 
and he clutched his purple robe before his eyes." 

"Right you are" — Pisistratus stepped in quickly — 
"son of Atreus, King Menelaus, captain of armies: 
here is the son of that great hero, as you say. 
But the man is modest, he would be ashamed 
to make a show of himself, his first time here, 
and interrupt you. We delight in your voice 
as if some god were speaking! 
The noble horseman Nestor sent me along 
to be his escort. Telemachus yearned to see you, 
so you could give him some advice or urge some action. 
When a father's gone, his son takes much abuse 
in a house where no one comes to his defense. 
So with Telemachus now. His father's gone. 
No men at home will shield him from the worst." 

"Wonderful!" the red-haired king cried out. 
"The son of my dearest friend, here in my own house! 
That man who performed a hundred feats of arms for me. 
And I swore that when he came I'd give him a hero's welcome, 
him above all my comrades — if only Olympian Zeus, 
farseeing Zeus, had granted us both safe passage 
home across the sea in our swift trim ships. 
Why, I'd have settled a city in Argos for him, 



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160 



170 



180 



190 



130 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[174-205] 



[206-37] 



BOOK 4: THE KING AND QUEEN OF SPARTA 



built him a palace, shipped him over from Ithaca, 

him and all his wealth, his son, his people too — 

emptied one of the cities nestling round about us, 

one I rule myself. Both fellow-countrymen then, 

how often we'd have mingled side-by-side! 

Nothing could have parted us, 

bound by love for each other, mutual delight . . . 

till death's dark cloud came shrouding round us both. 

But god himself, jealous of all this, no doubt, 

robbed that unlucky man, him and him alone, 

of the day of his return." 

So Menelaus mused 
and stirred in them all a deep desire to grieve. 
Helen of Argos, daughter of Zeus, dissolved in tears, 
Telemachus wept too, and so did Atreus' son Menelaus. 
Nor could Nestor's son Pisistratus stay dry-eyed, 
remembering now his gallant brother Antilochus, 
cut down by Memnon, splendid son of the Morning. 
Thinking of him, the young prince broke out: 
"Old Nestor always spoke of you, son of Atreus, 
as the wisest man of all the men he knew, 
whenever we talked about you there at home, 
questioning back and forth. So now, please, 
if it isn't out of place, indulge me, won't you? 
Myself, I take no joy in weeping over supper. 
Morning will soon bring time enough for that. 
Not that I'd grudge a tear 
for any man gone down to meet his fate. 
What other tribute can we pay to wretched men 
than to cut a lock, let tears roll down our cheeks? 
And I have a brother of my own among the dead, 
and hardly the poorest soldier in our ranks. 
You probably knew him. I never met him, never 
saw him myself. But they say he outdid our best, 
Antilochus — lightning on his feet and every inch a fighter!" 

"Well said, my friend," the red-haired king replied. 
"Not even an older man could speak and do as well. 



200 



210 



220 



Your father's son you are— your words have all his wisdom. 

It's easy to spot the breed of a man whom Zeus 

has marked for joy in birth and marriage both. 

Take great King Nestor now: 

Zeus has blessed him, all his livelong days, 

growing rich and sleek in his old age at home, 

his sons expert with spears and full of sense. 

Well, so much for the tears that caught us just now; 

let's think again of supper. Come, rinse our hands. 

Tomorrow, at dawn, will offer me and Telemachus 

time to talk and trade our thoughts in full." 

Asphalion quickly rinsed their hands with water, 
another of King Menelaus' ready aides-in-arms. 
Again they reached for the good things set before them. 

Then Zeus's daughter Helen thought of something else. 
Into the mixing-bowl from which they drank their wine 
she slipped a drug, heart's-ease, dissolving anger, 
magic to make us all forget our pains . . . 
No one who drank it deeply, mulled in wine, 
could let a tear roll down his cheeks that day, 
not even if his mother should die, his father die, 
not even if right before his eyes some enemy brought down 
a brother or darling son with a sharp bronze blade. 
So cunning the drugs that Zeus's daughter plied, 
potent gifts from Polydamna the wife of Thon, 
a woman of Egypt, land where the teeming soil 
bears the richest yield of herbs in all the world: 
many health itself when mixed in the wine, 
and many deadly poison. 
Every man is a healer there, more skilled 
than any other men on earth — Egyptians born 
of the healing god himself. So now Helen, once 
she had drugged the wine and ordered winecups filled, 
resuming the conversation, entertained the group: 
"My royal king Menelaus — welcome guests here, 
sons of the great as well! Zeus can present us 



131 



230 



240 



250 



260 



132 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[237-67] 



[267-98] 



BOOK 4: THE KING AND QUEEN OF SPARTA 



times of joy and times of grief in turn: 

all lies within his power. 

So come, let's sit back in the palace now, 

dine and warm our hearts with the old stories. 

I will tell something perfect for the occasion. 

Surely I can't describe or even list them all, 

the exploits crowding fearless Odysseus' record, 

but what a feat that hero dared and carried off 

in the land of Troy where you Achaeans suffered! 

Scarring his own body with mortifying strokes, 

throwing filthy rags on his back like any slave, 

he slipped into the enemy's city, roamed its streets — 

all disguised, a totally different man, a beggar, 

hardly the figure he cut among Achaea's ships. 

That's how Odysseus infiltrated Troy, 

and no one knew him at all . . . 

I alone, I spotted him for the man he was, 

kept questioning him — the crafty one kept dodging. 

But after I'd bathed him, rubbed him down with oil, 

given him clothes to wear and sworn a binding oath 

not to reveal him as Odysseus to the Trojans, not 

till he was back at his swift ships and shelters, 

then at last he revealed to me, step by step, 

the whole Achaean strategy. And once he'd cut 

a troop of Trojans down with his long bronze sword, 

back he went to his comrades, filled with information. 

The rest of the Trojan women shrilled their grief. Not I: 

my heart leapt up — 

my heart had changed by now — 

I yearned 
to sail back home again! I grieved too late for the madness 
Aphrodite sent me, luring me there, far from my dear land, 
forsaking my own child, my bridal bed, my husband too, 
a man who lacked for neither brains nor beauty." 

And the red-haired Menelaus answered Helen: 
"There was a tale, my lady. So well told. 
Now then, I have studied, in my time, 



270 



280 



290 



the plans and minds of great ones by the score. 

And I have traveled over a good part of the world 

but never once have I laid eyes on a man like him — 

what a heart that fearless Odysseus had inside him! 

What a piece of work the hero dared and carried off 

in the wooden horse where all our best encamped, 

our champions armed with bloody death for Troy . . . 

when along you came, Helen — roused, no doubt, 

by a dark power bent on giving Troy some glory, 

and dashing Prince Deiphobus squired your every step. 

Three times you sauntered round our hollow ambush, 

feeling, stroking its flanks, 

challenging all our fighters, calling each by name — 

yours was the voice of all our long-lost wives! 

And Diomedes and I, crouched tight in the midst 

with great Odysseus, hearing you singing out, 

were both keen to spring up and sally forth 

or give you a sudden answer from inside, 

but Odysseus damped our ardor, reined us back. 

Then all the rest of the troops kept stock-still, 

all but Anticlus. He was hot to salute you now 

but Odysseus clamped his great hands on the man's mouth 

and shut it, brutally — yes, he saved us all, 

holding on grim-set till Pallas Athena 

lured you off at last." 

But clear-sighted Telemachus ventured, 
"Son of Atreus, King Menelaus, captain of armies, 
so much the worse, for not one bit of that 
saved him from grisly death . . . 
not even a heart of iron could have helped. 
But come, send us off to bed. It's time to rest, 
time to enjoy the sweet relief of sleep." 

And Helen briskly told her serving-women 
to make beds in the porch's shelter, lay down 
some heavy purple throws for the beds themselves, 
and over them spread some blankets, thick woolly robes, 



133 



300 



310 



320 



330 



134 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[299-333] 



a warm covering laid on top. Torches in hand, 

they left the hall and made up beds at once. 

The herald led the two guests on and so they slept 

outside the palace under the forecourt's colonnade, 

young Prince Telemachus and Nestor's shining son. 

Menelaus retired to chambers deep in his lofty house 

with Helen the pearl of women loosely gowned beside him. 



340 



When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 
the lord of the warcry climbed from bed and dressed, 
over his shoulder he slung his well-honed sword, 
fastened rawhide sandals under his smooth feet, 
stepped from his bedroom, handsome as a god, 
and sat beside Telemachus, asking, kindly, 
"Now, my young prince, tell me what brings you here 
to sunny Lacedaemon, sailing over the sea's broad back. 
A public matter or private? Tell me the truth now." 



350 



And with all the poise he had, Telemachus replied, 
"Son of Atreus, King Menelaus, captain of armies, 
I came in the hope that you can tell me now 
some news about my father. 

My house is being devoured, my rich farms destroyed, 
my palace crammed with enemies, slaughtering on and on 
my droves of sheep and shambling longhorn cattle. 
Suitors plague my mother — the insolent, overweening . . . 
That's why I've come to plead before you now, 360 

if you can tell me about his cruel death: 
perhaps you saw him die with your own eyes 
or heard the wanderer's end from someone else. 
More than all other men, that man was born for pain. 
Don't soften a thing, from pity, respect for me — 
tell me, clearly, all your eyes have witnessed. 
I beg you — if ever my father, lord Odysseus, 
pledged you his word and made it good in action 
once on the fields of Troy where you Achaeans suffered, 
remember his story now, tell me the truth." 

"How shameful!" 370 



[333-64] 



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135 



the red-haired king burst out in anger. "That's the bed 

of a brave man of war they'd like to crawl inside, 

those spineless, craven cowards! 

Weak as the doe that beds down her fawns 

in a mighty lion's den — her newborn sucklings — 

then trails off to the mountain spurs and grassy bends 

to graze her fill, but back the lion comes to his own lair 

and the master deals both fawns a ghastly bloody death, 

just what Odysseus will deal that mob — ghastly death. 

Ah if only — Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo — 

that man who years ago in the games at Lesbos 

rose to Philomelides' challenge, wrestled him, 

pinned him down with one tremendous throw 

and the Argives roared with joy . . . 

if only that Odysseus sported with those suitors, 

a blood wedding, a quick death would take the lot! 

But about the things you've asked me, so intently, 

I'll skew and sidestep nothing, not deceive you, ever. 

Of all he told me— the Old Man of the Sea who never lies — 

I'll hide or hold back nothing, not a single word. 



380 



390 



It was in Egypt, where the gods still marooned me, 
eager as I was to voyage home ... I'd failed, 
you see, to render them full, flawless victims, 
and gods are always keen to see their rules obeyed. 
Now, there's an island out in the ocean's heavy surge, 
well off the Egyptian coast — they call it Pharos — 
far as a deep-sea ship can go in one day's sail 
with a whistling wind astern to drive her on. 
There's a snug harbor there, good landing beach 
where crews pull in, draw water up from the dark wells, 
then push their vessels off for passage out. 
But here the gods becalmed me twenty days . . . 
not a breath of the breezes ruffling out to sea 
that speed a ship across the ocean's broad back. 
Now our rations would all have been consumed, 
our crews' stamina too, if one of the gods 
had not felt sorry for me, shown me mercy, 



400 



136 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



Eidothea, a daughter of Proteus, 

that great power, the Old Man of the Sea. 

My troubles must have moved her to the heart 

when she met me trudging by myself without my men. 

They kept roaming around the beach, day in, day out, 

fishing with twisted hooks, their bellies racked by hunger. 

Well, she came right up to me, filled with questions: 

'Are you a fool, stranger — soft in the head and lazy too? 

Or do you let things slide because you like your pain? 

Here you are, cooped up on an island far too long, 

with no way out of it, none that you can find, 

while all your shipmates' spirit ebbs away.' 

So she prodded and I replied at once, 
'Let me tell you, goddess — whoever you are — 
I'm hardly landlocked here of my own free will. 
So I must have angered one of the deathless gods 
who rule the skies up there. But you tell me — 
you immortals know it all — which one of you 
blocks my way here, keeps me from my voyage? 
How can I cross the swarming sea and reach home at last?' 

And the glistening goddess reassured me warmly, 
'Of course, my friend, I'll answer all your questions. 
Who haunts these parts? Proteus of Egypt does, 
the immortal Old Man of the Sea who never lies, 
who sounds the deep in all its depths, Poseidon's servant. 
He's my father, they say, he gave me life. And he, 
if only you ambush him somehow and pin him down, 
will tell you the way to go, the stages of your voyage, 
how you can cross the swarming sea and reach home at last. 
And he can tell you too, if you want to press him — 
you are a king, it seems — 

all that's occurred within your palace, good and bad, 
while you've been gone your long and painful way.' 

'Then you are the one' — I quickly took her up. 
'Show me the trick to trap this ancient power, 



[365-95] 



410 



[396-425] 



BOOK 4: THE KING AND QUEEN OF SPARTA 



137 



420 



430 



440 



or he'll see or sense me first and slip away. 
It's hard for a mortal man to force a god.' 

'True, my friend,' the glistening one agreed, 
'and again I'll tell you all you need to know. 
When the sun stands striding at high noon, 
then up from the waves he comes — 
the Old Man of the Sea who never lies — 
under a West Wind's gust that shrouds him round 
in shuddering dark swells, and once he's out on land 
he heads for his bed of rest in deep hollow caves 
and around him droves of seals — sleek pups bred 
by his lovely ocean-lady — bed down too 
in a huddle, flopping up from the gray surf, 
giving off the sour reek of the salty ocean depths. 
I'll lead you there myself at the break of day 
and couch you all for attack, side-by-side. 
Choose three men from your crew, choose well, 
the best you've got aboard the good decked hulls. 
Now I will tell you all the old wizard's tricks . . . 
First he will make his rounds and count the seals 
and once he's checked their number, reviewed them all, 
down in their midst he'll lie, like a shepherd with his flock. 
That's your moment. Soon as you see him bedded down, 
muster your heart and strength and hold him fast, 
wildly as he writhes and fights you to escape. 
He'll try all kinds of escape — twist and turn 
into every beast that moves across the earth, 
transforming himself into water, superhuman fire, 
but you hold on for dear life, hug him all the harder! 
And when, at last, he begins to ask you questions — 
back in the shape you saw him sleep at first — 
relax your grip and set the old god free 
and ask him outright, hero, 
which of the gods is up in arms against you? 
How can you cross the swarming sea and reach home at last?' 

So she urged and under the breaking surf she dove 



450 



460 



470 



138 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[426-57] 



as I went back to our squadron beached in sand, 

my heart a heaving storm at every step ... 480 

Once I reached my ship hauled up on shore 

we made our meal and the godsent night came down 

and then we slept at the sea's smooth shelving edge. 

When young Dawn with her rose -red fingers shone once more 

I set out down the coast of the wide-ranging sea, 

praying hard to the gods for all their help, 

taking with me the three men I trusted most 

on every kind of mission. 

Eidothea, now, 
had slipped beneath the sea's engulfing folds 

but back from the waves she came with four sealskins, 490 

all freshly stripped, to deceive her father blind. 
She scooped out lurking-places deep in the sand 
and sat there waiting as we approached her post, 
then couching us side-by-side she flung a sealskin 
over each man's back. Now there was an ambush 
that would have overpowered us all — overpowering, 
true, the awful reek of all those sea-fed brutes! 
Who'd dream of bedding down with a monster of the deep? 
But the goddess sped to our rescue, found the cure 
with ambrosia, daubing it under each man's nose — 500 

that lovely scent, it drowned the creatures' stench. 
So all morning we lay there waiting, spirits steeled, 
while seals came crowding, jostling out of the sea 
and flopped down in rows, basking along the surf. 
At high noon the old man emerged from the waves 
and found his fat-fed seals and made his rounds, 
counting them off, counting us the first four, 
but he had no inkling of all the fraud afoot. 
Then down he lay and slept, but we with a battle-cry, 
we rushed him, flung our arms around him — he'd lost nothing, 510 

the old rascal, none of his cunning quick techniques! 
First he shifted into a great bearded lion 
and then a serpent — 

a panther — 

a ramping wild boar — 



[458-88] 



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139 



a torrent of water — 

a tree with soaring branchtops — 
but we held on for dear life, braving it out 
until, at last, that quick-change artist, 
the old wizard, began to weary of all this 
and burst out into rapid-fire questions: 
'Which god, Menelaus, conspired with you 
to trap me in ambush? seize me against my will? 
What on earth do you want?' 

'You know, old man,' 
I countered now. 'Why put me off with questions? 
Here I am, cooped up on an island far too long, 
with no way out of it, none that I can find, 
while my spirit ebbs away. But you tell me — 
you immortals know it all — which one of you 
blocks my way here, keeps me from my voyage? 
How can I cross the swarming sea and reach home at last?' 

'How wrong you were!' the seer shot back at once. 
'You should have offered Zeus and the other gods 
a handsome sacrifice, then embarked, if you ever hoped 
for a rapid journey home across the wine-dark sea. 
It's not your destiny yet to see your loved ones, 
reach your own grand house, your native land at last, 
not till you sail back through Egyptian waters — 
the great Nile swelled by the rains of Zeus — 
and make a splendid rite to the deathless gods 
who rule the vaulting skies. Then, only then 
will the gods grant you the voyage you desire.' 

So he urged, and broke the heart inside me, 
having to double back on the mist-bound seas, 
back to Egypt, that, that long and painful way . . . 
Nevertheless I caught my breath and answered, 
'That I will do, old man, as you command. 
But tell me this as well, and leave out nothing: 
Did all the Achaeans reach home in the ships unharmed, 
all we left behind, Nestor and I, en route from Troy? 



520 



530 



540 



140 homer: the odyssey 

Or did any die some cruel death by shipwreck 

or die in the arms of loved ones, 

once they'd wound down the long coil of war?' 

And he lost no time in saying, 'Son of Atreus, 
why do you ask me that? Why do you need to know? 
Why probe my mind? You won't stay dry-eyed long, 
I warn you, once you have heard the whole story. 
Many of them were killed, many survived as well, 
but only two who captained your bronze-armored units 
died on the way home — you know who died in the fighting, 
you were there yourself. 

And one is still alive, 
held captive, somewhere, off in the endless seas . . . 

Ajax, now, went down with his long-oared fleet. 
First Poseidon drove him onto the cliffs of Gyrae, 
looming cliffs, then saved him from the breakers — 
he'd have escaped his doom, too, despite Athena's hate, 
if he hadn't flung that brazen boast, the mad blind fool. 
"In the teeth of the gods," he bragged, "I have escaped 
the ocean's sheer abyss!" Poseidon heard that frantic vaunt 
and the god grasped his trident in both his massive hands 
and struck the Gyraean headland, hacked the rock in two, 
and the giant stump stood fast but the jagged spur 
where Ajax perched at first, the raving madman — 
toppling into the sea, it plunged him down, down 
in the vast, seething depths. And so he died, 
having drunk his fill of brine. 

Your brother? 
He somehow escaped that fate; Agamemnon got away 
in his beaked ships. Queen Hera pulled him through. 
But just as he came abreast of Malea's beetling cape 
a hurricane snatched him up and swept him way off course- 
groaning, desperate — driving him over the fish-infested sea 
to the wild borderland where Thyestes made his home 
in days of old and his son Aegisthus lived now. 
But even from there a safe return seemed likely, 



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yes, the immortals swung the wind around to fair 

and the victors sailed home. How he rejoiced, 

Atrides setting foot on his fatherland once more — 

he took that native earth in his hands and kissed it, 

hot tears flooding his eyes, so thrilled to see his land! 

But a watchman saw him too — from a lookout high above — 

a spy that cunning Aegisthus stationed there, 

luring the man with two gold bars in payment. 

One whole year he'd watched . . . 

so the great king would not get past unseen, 

his fighting power intact for self-defense. 

The spy ran the news to his master's halls 

and Aegisthus quickly set his stealthy trap. 

Picking the twenty best recruits from town 

he packed them in ambush at one end of the house, 

at the other he ordered a banquet dressed and spread 

and went to welcome the conquering hero, Agamemnon, 

went with team and chariot, and a mind aswarm with evil. 

Up from the shore he led the king, he ushered him in — 

suspecting nothing of all his doom — he feasted him well 

then cut him down as a man cuts down some ox at the trough! 

Not one of your brother's men-at-arms was left alive, 

none of Aegisthus' either. All, killed in the palace.' 

So Proteus said, and his story crushed my heart. 
I knelt down in the sand and wept. I'd no desire 
to go on living and see the rising light of day. 
But once I'd had my fill of tears and writhing there, 
the Old Man of the Sea who never lies continued, 
'No more now, Menelaus. How long must you weep? 
Withering tears, what good can come of tears? 
None I know of. Strive instead to return 
to your native country — hurry home at once! 
Either you'll find the murderer still alive 
or Orestes will have beaten you to the kill. 
You'll be in time to share the funeral feast.' 

So he pressed, and I felt my heart, my old pride, 



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[549-81] 



for all my grieving, glow once more in my chest 

and I asked the seer in a rush of winging words, 

Those two I know now. Tell me the third man's name. 620 

Who is still alive, held captive off in the endless seas? 

Unless he's dead by now. I want to know the truth 

though it grieves me all the more.' 

'Odysseus' — 
the old prophet named the third at once — 
'Laertes' son, who makes his home in Ithaca . . . 
I saw him once on an island, weeping live warm tears 
in the nymph Calypso's house — she holds him there by force. 
He has no way to voyage home to his own native land, 
no trim ships in reach, no crew to ply the oars 

and send him scudding over the sea's broad back. 630 

But about your destiny, Menelaus, dear to Zeus, 
it's not for you to die 

and meet your fate in the stallion-land of Argos, 
no, the deathless ones will sweep you off to the world's end, 
the Elysian Fields, where gold-haired Rhadamanthys waits, 
where life glides on in immortal ease for mortal man; 
no snow, no winter onslaught, never a downpour there 
but night and day the Ocean River sends up breezes, 
singing winds of the West refreshing all mankind. 

All this because you are Helen's husband now — 640 

the gods count you the son-in-law of Zeus.' 

So he divined and down the breaking surf he dove 
as I went back to the ships with my brave men, 
my heart a rising tide at every step. 
Once I reached my craft hauled up on shore 
we made our meal and the godsent night came down 
and then we slept at the sea's smooth shelving edge. 
When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 
we hauled the vessels down to the sunlit breakers first 
then stepped the masts amidships, canvas brailed — 650 

the crews swung aboard, they sat to the oars in ranks 
and in rhythm churned the water white with stroke on stroke. 
Back we went to the Nile swelled by the rains of Zeus, 



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143 



I moored the ships and sacrificed in a splendid rite, 
and once I'd slaked the wrath of the everlasting gods 
I raised a mound for Agamemnon, his undying glory. 
All this done, I set sail and the gods sent me 
a stiff following wind that sped me home, 
home to the native land I love. 

But come, 
my boy, stay on in my palace now with me, 
at least till ten or a dozen days have passed. 
Then I'll give you a princely send-off — shining gifts, 
three stallions and a chariot burnished bright — 
and I'll add a gorgeous cup so you can pour 
libations out to the deathless gods on high 
and remember Menelaus all your days." 

Telemachus, 
summoning up his newfound tact, replied, 
"Please, Menelaus, don't keep me quite so long. 
True, I'd gladly sit beside you one whole year 
without a twinge of longing for home or parents. 
It's wonderful how you tell your stories, all you say — 
I delight to listen! Yes, but now, I'm afraid, 
my comrades must be restless in sacred Pylos, 
and here you'd hold me just a little longer. 
As for the gift you give me, let it be a keepsake. 
Those horses I really cannot take to Ithaca; 
better to leave them here to be your glory. 
You rule a wide level plain 
where the fields of clover roll and galingale 
and wheat and oats and glistening full-grain barley. 
No running-room for mares in Ithaca though, no meadows. 
Goat, not stallion, land, yet it means the world to me. 
None of the rugged islands slanting down to sea 
is good for pasture or good for bridle paths, 
but Ithaca, best of islands, crowns them all!" 

So he declared. The lord of the warcry smiled, 
patted him with his hand and praised his guest, concluding, 
"Good blood runs in you, dear boy, your words are proof. 



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Certainly I'll exchange the gifts. The power's mine. 
Of all the treasures lying heaped in my palace 
you shall have the finest, most esteemed. Why, 
I'll give you a mixing-bowl, forged to perfection — 
it's solid silver finished off with a lip of gold. 
Hephaestus made it himself. And a royal friend, 
Phaedimus, king of Sidon, lavished it on me 
when his palace welcomed me on passage home. 
How pleased I'd be if you took it as a gift!" 

And now as the two confided in each other, 
banqueters arrived at the great king's palace, 
leading their own sheep, bearing their hearty wine, 
and their wives in lovely headbands sent along the food. 
And so they bustled about the halls preparing dinner . . . 
But all the while the suitors, before Odysseus' palace, 
amused themselves with discus and long throwing spears, 
out on the leveled grounds, free and easy as always, 
full of swagger. But lord Antinous sat apart, 
dashing Eurymachus beside him, ringleaders, 
head and shoulders the strongest of the lot. 
Phronius' son Noemon approached them now, 
quick to press Antinous with a question: 
"Antinous, have we any notion or not 
when Telemachus will return from sandy Pylos? 
He sailed in a ship of mine and now I need her back 
to cross over to Elis Plain where I keep a dozen horses, 
brood-mares suckling some heavy-duty mules, unbroken. 
I'd like to drive one home and break him in." 

That dumbfounded them both. They never dreamed 
the prince had gone to Pylos, Neleus' city — 
certain the boy was still nearby somewhere, 
out on his farm with flocks or with the swineherd. 

"Tell me the truth!" Antinous wheeled on Noemon. 
"When did he go? And what young crew went with him? 
Ithaca's best? Or his own slaves and servants? 



690 



700 



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720 



Surely he has enough to man a ship. 

Tell me this — be clear — I've got to know: 

did he commandeer your ship against your will 

or did you volunteer it once he'd won you over?" 

"I volunteered it, of course," Noemon said. 
"What else could anyone do, when such a man, 

a prince weighed down with troubles, 730 

asked a favor? Hard to deny him anything. 
And the young crew that formed his escort? Well, 
they're the finest men on the island, next to us. 
And Mentor took command — I saw him climb aboard — 
or a god who looked like Mentor head to foot, 
and that's what I find strange. I saw good Mentor 
yesterday, just at sunup, here. But clearly 
he boarded ship for Pylos days ago." 

With that he headed back to his father's house, 
leaving the two lords stiff with indignation. 740 

They made the suitors sit down in a group 
and stop their games at once. Eupithes' son 
Antinous rose up in their midst to speak, 
his dark heart filled with fury, 
blazing with anger — eyes like searing fire: 
"By god, what a fine piece of work he's carried off! 
Telemachus — what insolence — and we thought his little jaunt 
would come to grief. But in spite of us all, look, 
the young cub slips away, just like that — 

picks the best crew in the land and off he sails. 750 

And this is just the start of the trouble he can make. 
Zeus kill that brazen boy before he hits his prime! 
Quick, fetch me a swift ship and twenty men — 
I'll waylay him from ambush, board him coming back 
in the straits between Ithaca and rocky Same. 
This gallant voyage of his to find his father 
will find him wrecked at last!" 

They all roared approval, urged him on, 



146 homer: the odyssey 

rose at once and retired to Odysseus' palace. 

But not for long was Penelope unaware 
of the grim plots her suitors planned in secret. 
The herald Medon told her. He'd overheard their schemes, 
listening in outside the court while they wove on within. 
He rushed the news through the halls to tell the queen 
who greeted him as he crossed her chamber's threshold: 
"Herald, why have the young blades sent you now? 
To order King Odysseus' serving-women 
to stop their work and slave to fix their feast? 
I hate their courting, their running riot here — 
would to god that this meal, here and now, 
were their last meal on earth! 

Day after day, 
all of you swarming, draining our life's blood, 
my wary son's estate. What, didn't you listen 
to your fathers — when you were children, years ago — 
telling you how Odysseus treated them, your parents? 
Never an unfair word, never an unfair action 
among his people here, though that's the way 
of our god-appointed kings, 
hating one man, loving the next, with luck. 
Not Odysseus. Never an outrage done to any man alive. 
But you, you and your ugly outbursts, shameful acts, 
they're plain to see. Look at the thanks he gets 
for all past acts of kindness!" 

Medon replied, 
sure of his own discretion, "Ah my queen, 
if only that were the worst of all you face. 
Now your suitors are plotting something worse, 
harsher, cruder. God forbid they bring it off! 
They're poised to cut Telemachus down with bronze swords 
on his way back home. He's sailed off, you see . . . 
for news of his father — to sacred Pylos first, 
then out to the sunny hills of Lacedaemon." 

Her knees gave way on the spot, her heart too. 



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She stood there speechless a while, struck dumb, 
tears filling her eyes, her warm voice choked. 
At last she found some words to make reply: 
"Oh herald, why has my child gone and left me? 
No need in the world for him to board the ships, 
those chariots of the sea that sweep men on, 
driving across the ocean's endless wastes . . . 
Does he want his very name wiped off the earth?" 

Medon, the soul of thoughtfulness, responded, 
"I don't know if a god inspired your son 
or the boy's own impulse led him down to Pylos, 
but he went to learn of his father's journey home, 
or whatever fate he's met." 

Back through King Odysseus' house he went 
but a cloud of heartbreak overwhelmed the queen. 
She could bear no longer sitting on a chair 
though her room had chairs aplenty. 
Down she sank on her well-built chamber's floor, 
weeping, pitifully, as the women whimpered round her, 
all the women, young and old, who served her house. 
Penelope, sobbing uncontrollably, cried out to them, 
"Hear me, dear ones! Zeus has given me torment — 
me above all the others born and bred in my day. 
My lionhearted husband, lost, long years ago, 
who excelled the Argives all in every strength — 
that great man whose fame resounds through Hellas 
right to the depths of Argos! 

But now my son, 
my darling boy — the whirlwinds have ripped him 
out of the halls without a trace! I never heard 
he'd gone — not even from you, you hard, heartless . . . 
not one of you even thought to rouse me from my bed, 
though well you knew when he boarded that black ship. 
Oh if only I had learned he was planning such a journey, 
he would have stayed, by god, keen as he was to sail — 
or left me dead right here within our palace. 



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810 



820 



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Go, someone, quickly! Call old Dolius now, 
the servant my father gave me when I came, 
the man who tends my orchard green with trees, 
so he can run to Laertes, sit beside him, 
tell him the whole story, blow-by-blow. 
Perhaps — who knows? — he'll weave some plan, 
he'll come out of hiding, plead with all these people 
mad to destroy his line, his son's line of kings!" 

"Oh dear girl," Eurycleia the fond old nurse replied, 
"kill me then with a bronze knife — no mercy — or let me live, 
here in the palace — I'll hide nothing from you now! 
I knew it all, I gave him all he asked for, 
bread and mellow wine, but he made me take 
a mighty oath that I, I wouldn't tell you, 
no, not till ten or a dozen days had passed 
or you missed the lad yourself and learned he'd gone, 
so tears would never mar your lovely face . . . 
Come, bathe now, put some fresh clothes on, 
climb to the upper rooms with all your women 
and pray to Pallas, daughter of storming Zeus — 
she may save Telemachus yet, even at death's door. 
Don't worry an old man, worried enough by now. 
I can't believe the blessed gods so hate 
the heirs of King Arcesius, through and through. 
One will still live on — I know it — born to rule 
this lofty house and the green fields far and wide." 

With that 
she lulled Penelope's grief and dried her eyes of tears. 
And the queen bathed and put fresh clothing on, 
climbed to the upper rooms with all her women 
and sifting barley into a basket, prayed to Pallas, 
"Hear me, daughter of Zeus whose shield is thunder — 
tireless one, Athena! If ever, here in his halls, 
resourceful King Odysseus 

burned rich thighs of sheep or oxen in your honor, 
oh remember it now for my sake, save my darling son, 



[735-65] 



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[766-961 BOOK 4: THE KING AND QUEEN OF SPARTA 

defend him from these outrageous, overbearing suitors!" 

She shrilled a high cry and the goddess heard her prayer 
as the suitors burst into uproar through the shadowed halls 
and one of the lusty young men began to brag, "Listen, 
our long-courted queen's preparing us all a marriage — 
with no glimmer at all 
how the murder of her son has been decreed." 

Boasting so, 

with no glimmer at all of what had been decreed. 
But Antinous took the floor and issued orders: 
"Stupid fools! Muzzle your bragging now — 
before someone slips inside and reports us. 
Up now, not a sound, drive home our plan — 
it suits us well, we approved it one and all." 

With that he picked out twenty first-rate men 
and down they went to the swift ship at the sea's edge. 
First they hauled the craft into deeper water, 
stepped the mast amidships, canvas brailed, 
made oars fast in the leather oarlock straps 
while zealous aides-in-arms brought weapons on. 
They moored her well out in the channel, disembarked 
and took their meal on shore, waiting for dusk to fall. 

But there in her upper rooms she lay, Penelope 
lost in thought, fasting, shunning food and drink, 
brooding now . . . would her fine son escape his death 
or go down at her overweening suitors' hands? 
Her mind in torment, wheeling 
like some lion at bay, dreading gangs of hunters 
closing their cunning ring around him for the finish. 
Harried so she was, when a deep kind sleep overcame her, 
back she sank and slept, her limbs fell limp and still. 

And again the bright-eyed goddess Pallas thought 
of one more way to help. She made a phantom now, 



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BOOK 4: THE KING AND QUEEN OF SPARTA 



151 



its build like a woman's build, Iphthime's, yes, 
another daughter of generous Lord Icarius, 
Eumelus' bride, who made her home in Pherae. 
Athena sped her on to King Odysseus' house 
to spare Penelope, worn with pain and sobbing, 
further spells of grief and storms of tears. 
The phantom entered her bedroom, 
passing quickly in through the doorbolt slit 
and hovering at her head she rose and spoke now: 
"Sleeping, Penelope, your heart so wrung with sorrow? 
No need, I tell you, no, the gods who live at ease 
can't bear to let you weep and rack your spirit. 
Your son will still come home — it is decreed. 
He's never wronged the gods in any way." 

And Penelope murmured back, still cautious, 
drifting softly now at the gate of dreams, 
"Why have you come, my sister? 
Your visits all too rare in the past, 
for you make your home so very far away. 
You tell me to lay to rest the grief and tears 
that overwhelm me now, torment me, heart and soul? 
With my lionhearted husband lost long years ago, 
who excelled the Argives all in every strength? 
That great man whose fame resounds through Hellas 
right to the depths of Argos . . . 

And now my darling boy, 
he's off and gone in a hollow ship! Just a youngster, 
still untrained for war or stiff debate. Him, 
I mourn him even more than I do my husband — 
quake in terror for all that he might suffer 
either on open sea or shores he goes to visit. 
Hordes of enemies scheme against him now, 
keen to kill him off 
before he can reach his native land again." 



900 



910 



920 



He travels with such an escort, one that others 
would pray to stand beside them. She has power — 
Pallas Athena. She pities you in your tears. 
She wings me here to tell you all these things." 

But the circumspect Penelope replied, 
"If you are a god and have heard a god's own voice, 
come, tell me about that luckless man as well. 
Is he still alive? does he see the light of day? 
Or is he dead already, lost in the House of Death?" 

"About that man," the shadowy phantom answered, 
"I cannot tell you the story start to finish, 
whether he's dead or alive. 
It's wrong to lead you on with idle words." 

At that 
she glided off by the doorpost past the bolt — 
gone on a lifting breeze. Icarius' daughter 
started up from sleep, her spirit warmed now 
that a dream so clear had come to her in darkest night. 

But the suitors boarded now and sailed the sea-lanes, 
plotting in their hearts Telemachus' plunge to death. 
Off in the middle channel lies a rocky island, 
just between Ithaca and Same's rugged cliffs — 
Asteris — not large, but it has a cove, 
a harbor with two mouths where ships can hide. 
Here the Achaeans lurked in ambush for the prince. 



930 



940 



950 



"Courage!" the shadowy phantom reassured her. 
"Don't be overwhelmed by all your direst fears. 



BOOK FIVE 




Odysseus — Nymph 
and Shipwreck 



As 



lS Dawn rose up from bed by her lordly mate Tithonus, 
bringing light to immortal gods and mortal men, 
the gods sat down in council, circling Zeus 
the thunder king whose power rules the world. 
Athena began, recalling Odysseus to their thoughts, 
the goddess deeply moved by the man's long ordeal, 
held captive still in the nymph Calypso's house: 
"Father Zeus — you other happy gods who never die — 
never let any sceptered king be kind and gentle now, 
not with all his heart, or set his mind on justice — 
no, let him be cruel and always practice outrage. 
Think: not one of the people whom he ruled 
remembers Odysseus now, that godlike man, 
and kindly as a father to his children. 



10 



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153 



Now 
he's left to pine on an island, racked with grief 
in the nymph Calypso's house— she holds him there by force. 
He has no way to voyage home to his own native land, 
no trim ships in reach, no crew to ply the oars 
and send him scudding over the sea's broad back. 
And now his dear son . . . they plot to kill the boy 
on his way back home. Yes, he has sailed off 
for news of his father, to holy Pylos first, 
then out to the sunny hills of Lacedaemon." 



20 



"My child," Zeus who marshals the thunderheads replied, 
"what nonsense you let slip through your teeth. Come now, 
wasn't the plan your own? You conceived it yourself: 
Odysseus shall return and pay the traitors back. 
Telemachus? Sail him home with all your skill — 
the power is yours, no doubt — 
home to his native country all unharmed 
while the suitors limp to port, defeated, baffled men." 



30 



With those words, Zeus turned to his own son Hermes. 
"You are our messenger, Hermes, sent on all our missions. 
Announce to the nymph with lovely braids our fixed decree: 
Odysseus journeys home — the exile must return. 
But not in the convoy of the gods or mortal men. 
No, on a lashed, makeshift raft and wrung with pains, 
on the twentieth day he will make his landfall, fertile Scheria, 
the land of Phaeacians, close kin to the gods themselves, 
who with all their hearts will prize him like a god 
and send him off in a ship to his own beloved land, 
giving him bronze and hoards of gold and robes — 
more plunder than he could ever have won from Troy 
if Odysseus had returned intact with his fair share. 
So his destiny ordains. He shall see his loved ones, 
reach his high-roofed house, his native land at last." 

So Zeus decreed and the giant-killing guide obeyed at once. 



40 



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homer: THE ODYSSEY 



Quickly under his feet he fastened the supple sandals, 

ever-glowing gold, that wing him over the waves 

and boundless earth with the rush of gusting winds. 

He seized the wand that enchants the eyes of men 

whenever Hermes wants, or wakes us up from sleep. 

That wand in his grip, the powerful giant-killer, 

swooping down from Pieria, down the high clear air, 

plunged to the sea and skimmed the waves like a tern 

that down the deadly gulfs of the barren salt swells 

glides and dives for fish, 

dipping its beating wings in bursts of spray — 

so Hermes skimmed the crests on endless crests. 

But once he gained that island worlds apart, 

up from the deep-blue sea he climbed to dry land 

and strode on till he reached the spacious cave 

where the nymph with lovely braids had made her home, 

and he found her there inside . . . 

A great fire 
blazed on the hearth and the smell of cedar 
cleanly split and sweetwood burning bright 
wafted a cloud of fragrance down the island. 
Deep inside she sang, the goddess Calypso, lifting 
her breathtaking voice as she glided back and forth 
before her loom, her golden shuttle weaving. 
Thick, luxuriant woods grew round the cave, 
alders and black poplars, pungent cypress too, 
and there birds roosted, folding their long wings, 
owls and hawks and the spread-beaked ravens of the sea, 
black skimmers who make their living off the waves. 
And round the mouth of the cavern trailed a vine 
laden with clusters, bursting with ripe grapes. 
Four springs in a row, bubbling clear and cold, 
running side-by-side, took channels left and right. 
Soft meadows spreading round were starred with violets, 
lush with beds of parsley. Why, even a deathless god 
who came upon that place would gaze in wonder, 
heart entranced with pleasure. Hermes the guide, 
the mighty giant-killer, stood there, spellbound . . . 



[44-75] 



50 



[76-108] 



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155 



60 



70 



80 



But once he'd had his fill of marveling at it all 

he briskly entered the deep vaulted cavern. 

Calypso, lustrous goddess, knew him at once, 

as soon as she saw his features face-to-face. 

Immortals are never strangers to each other, 

no matter how distant one may make her home. 

But as for great Odysseus — 

Hermes could not find him within the cave. 

Off he sat on a headland, weeping there as always, 

wrenching his heart with sobs and groans and anguish, 

gazing out over the barren sea through blinding tears. 

But Calypso, lustrous goddess, questioned Hermes, 

seating him on a glistening, polished chair. 

"God of the golden wand, why have you come? 

A beloved, honored friend, 

but it's been so long, your visits much too rare. 

Tell me what's on your mind. I'm eager to do it, 

whatever I can do . . . whatever can be done." 

And the goddess drew a table up beside him, 
heaped with ambrosia, mixed him deep-red nectar. 
Hermes the guide and giant-killer ate and drank. 
Once he had dined and fortified himself with food 
he launched right in, replying to her questions: 
"As one god to another, you ask me why I've come. 
I'll tell you the whole story, mince no words — 
your wish is my command. 

It was Zeus who made me come, no choice of mine. 
Who would willingly roam across a salty waste so vast, 
so endless? Think: no city of men in sight, and not a soul 
to offer the gods a sacrifice and burn the fattest victims. 
But there is no way, you know, for another god to thwart 
the will of storming Zeus and make it come to nothing. 
Zeus claims you keep beside you a most unlucky man, 
most harried of all who fought for Priam's Troy 
nine years, sacking the city in the tenth, 
and then set sail for home. 
But voyaging back they outraged Queen Athena 



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who loosed the gales and pounding seas against them. 

There all the rest of his loyal shipmates died 

but the wind drove him on, the current bore him here. 

Now Zeus commands you to send him off with all good speed: 

it is not his fate to die here, far from his own people. 

Destiny still ordains that he shall see his loved ones, 

reach his high-roofed house, his native land at last." 

But lustrous Calypso shuddered at those words 
and burst into a flight of indignation. "Hard-hearted 130 

you are, you gods! You unrivaled lords of jealousy — 
scandalized when goddesses sleep with mortals, 
openly, even when one has made the man her husband. 
So when Dawn with her rose-red fingers took Orion, 
you gods in your everlasting ease were horrified 
till chaste Artemis throned in gold attacked him, 
out on Delos, shot him to death with gentle shafts. 
And so when Demeter the graceful one with lovely braids 
gave way to her passion and made love with Iasion, 
bedding down in a furrow plowed three times — 140 

Zeus got wind of it soon enough, I'd say, 
and blasted the man to death with flashing bolts. 
So now at last, you gods, you train your spite on me 
for keeping a mortal man beside me. The man I saved, 
riding astride his keel-board, all alone, when Zeus 
with one hurl of a white-hot bolt had crushed 
his racing warship down the wine-dark sea. 
There all the rest of his loyal shipmates died 
but the wind drove him on, the current bore him here. 
And / welcomed him warmly, cherished him, even vowed 150 

to make the man immortal, ageless, all his days . . . 
But since there is no way for another god to thwart 
the will of storming Zeus and make it come to nothing, 
let the man go — if the Almighty insists, commands — 
and destroy himself on the barren salt sea! 
I'll send him off, but not with any escort. 
I have no ships in reach, no crew to ply the oars 
and send him scudding over the sea's broad back. 



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But I will gladly advise him — I'll hide nothing — 
so he can reach his native country all unharmed." 

And the guide and giant-killer reinforced her words: 
"Release him at once, just so. Steer clear of the rage of Zeus! 
Or down the years he'll fume and make your life a hell." 

With that the powerful giant-killer sped away. 
The queenly nymph sought out the great Odysseus — 
the commands of Zeus still ringing in her ears — 
and found him there on the headland, sitting, still, 
weeping, his eyes never dry, his sweet life flowing away 
with the tears he wept for his foiled journey home, 
since the nymph no longer pleased. In the nights, true, 
he'd sleep with her in the arching cave — he had no choice — 
unwilling lover alongside lover all too willing . . . 
But all his days he'd sit on the rocks and beaches, 
wrenching his heart with sobs and groans and anguish, 
gazing out over the barren sea through blinding tears. 
So coming up to him now, the lustrous goddess ventured, 
"No need, my unlucky one, to grieve here any longer, 
no, don't waste your life away. Now I am willing, 
heart and soul, to send you off at last. Come, 
take bronze tools, cut your lengthy timbers, 
make them into a broad-beamed raft 
and top it off with a half-deck high enough 
to sweep you free and clear on the misty seas. 
And I myself will stock her with food and water, 
ruddy wine to your taste — all to stave off hunger — 
give you clothing, send you a stiff following wind 
so you can reach your native country all unharmed. 
If only the gods are willing. They rule the vaulting skies. 
They're stronger than I to plan and drive things home." 

Long-enduring Odysseus shuddered at that 
and broke out in a sharp flight of protest. 
"Passage home? Never. Surely you're plotting 
something else, goddess, urging me — in a raft — 



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to cross the ocean's mighty gulfs. So vast, so full 

of danger not even deep-sea ships can make it through, 

swift as they are and buoyed up by the winds of Zeus himself. 

I won't set foot on a raft until you show good faith, 

until you consent to swear, goddess, a binding oath 

you'll never plot some new intrigue to harm me!" 

He was so intense the lustrous goddess smiled, 
stroked him with her hand, savored his name and chided, 
"Ah what a wicked man you are, and never at a loss. 
What a thing to imagine, what a thing to say! 
Earth be my witness now, the vaulting Sky above 
and the dark cascading waters of the Styx — I swear 
by the greatest, grimmest oath that binds the happy gods: 
I will never plot some new intrigue to harm you. 
Never. All I have in mind and devise for you 
are the very plans I'd fashion for myself 
if I were in your straits. My every impulse 
bends to what is right. Not iron, trust me, 
the heart within my breast. I am all compassion." 

And lustrous Calypso quickly led the way 
as he followed in the footsteps of the goddess. 
They reached the arching cavern, man and god as one, 
and Odysseus took the seat that Hermes just left, 
while the nymph set out before him every kind 
of food and drink that mortal men will take. 
Calypso sat down face-to-face with the king 
and the women served her nectar and ambrosia. 
They reached out for the good things that lay at hand 
and when they'd had their fill of food and drink 
the lustrous one took up a new approach. "So then, 
royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, man of exploits, 
still eager to leave at once and hurry back 
to your own home, your beloved native land? 
Good luck to you, even so. Farewell! 
But if you only knew, down deep, what pains 
are fated to fill your cup before you reach that shore, 



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you'd stay right here, preside in our house with me 
and be immortal. Much as you long to see your wife, 
the one you pine for all your days . . . and yet 
I just might claim to be nothing less than she, 
neither in face nor figure. Hardly right, is it, 
for mortal woman to rival immortal goddess? 
How, in build? in beauty?" 

"Ah great goddess," 
worldly Odysseus answered, "don't be angry with me, 
please. All that you say is true, how well I know. 
Look at my wise Penelope. She falls far short of you, 
your beauty, stature. She is mortal after all 
and you, you never age or die . . . 
Nevertheless I long — I pine, all my days — 
to travel home and see the dawn of my return. 
And if a god will wreck me yet again on the wine-dark sea, 
I can bear that too, with a spirit tempered to endure. 
Much have I suffered, labored long and hard by now 
in the waves and wars. Add this to the total — 
bring the trial on!" 

Even as he spoke 
the sun set and the darkness swept the earth. 
And now, withdrawing into the cavern's deep recesses, 
long in each other's arms they lost themselves in love. 

When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 
Odysseus quickly dressed himself in cloak and shirt 
while the nymph slipped on a loose, glistening robe, 
filmy, a joy to the eye, and round her waist 
she ran a brocaded golden belt 
and over her head a scarf to shield her brow, 
then turned to plan the great man's voyage home. 
She gave him a heavy bronze ax that fit his grip, 
both blades well-honed, with a fine olive haft 
lashed firm to its head. She gave him a polished 
smoothing-adze as well and then she led the way 
to the island's outer edge where trees grew tall, 
alders, black poplars and firs that shot sky-high, 



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seasoned, drying for years, ideal for easy floating. 

Once she'd shown her guest where the tall timber stood, 

Calypso the lustrous goddess headed home again. 

He set to cutting trunks — the work was done in no time. 

Twenty in all he felled, he trimmed them clean with his ax 

and split them deftly, trued them straight to the line. 

Meanwhile the radiant goddess brought him drills — 

he bored through all his planks and wedged them snugly, 

knocking them home together, locked with pegs and bolts. 

Broad in the beam and bottom flat as a merchantman 

when a master shipwright turns out her hull, 

so broad the craft Odysseus made himself. 

Working away at speed 

he put up half-decks pinned to close-set ribs 

and a sweep of gunwales rounded off the sides. 

He fashioned the mast next and sank its yard in deep 

and added a steering-oar to hold her right on course, 

then he fenced her stem to stern with twigs and wicker, 

bulwark against the sea-surge, floored with heaps of brush. 

And lustrous Calypso came again, now with bolts of cloth 

to make the sail, and he finished that off too, expertly. 

Braces, sheets and brails — he rigged all fast on board, 

then eased her down with levers into the sunlit sea. 

That was the fourth day and all his work was done. 
On the fifth, the lovely goddess launched him from her island, 
once she had bathed and decked him out in fragrant clothes. 
And Calypso stowed two skins aboard — dark wine in one, 
the larger one held water — added a sack of rations, 
filled with her choicest meats to build his strength, 
and summoned a wind to bear him onward, fair and warm. 
The wind lifting his spirits high, royal Odysseus 
spread sail — gripping the tiller, seated astern — 
and now the master mariner steered his craft, 
sleep never closing his eyes, forever scanning 
the stars, the Pleiades and the Plowman late to set 
and the Great Bear that mankind also calls the Wagon: 
she wheels on her axis always fixed, watching the Hunter, 



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and she alone is denied a plunge in the Ocean's baths. 

Hers were the stars the lustrous goddess told him 

to keep hard to port as he cut across the sea. 

And seventeen days he sailed, making headway well; 

on the eighteenth, shadowy mountains slowly loomed . . . 

the Phaeacians' island reaching toward him now, 

over the misty breakers, rising like a shield. 

But now Poseidon, god of the earthquake, saw him — 
just returning home from his Ethiopian friends, 
from miles away on the Solymi mountain-range 
he spied Odysseus sailing down the sea 
and it made his fury boil even more. 
He shook his head and rumbled to himself, 
"Outrageous! Look how the gods have changed their minds 
about Odysseus — while I was off with my Ethiopians. 
Just look at him there, nearing Phaeacia's shores 
where he's fated to escape his noose of pain 
that's held him until now. Still my hopes ride high— 
I'll give that man his swamping fill of trouble!" 

With that he rammed the clouds together— both hands 
clutching his trident — churned the waves into chaos, whipping 
all the gales from every quarter, shrouding over in thunderheads 
the earth and sea at once— and night swept down from the sky- 
East and South Winds clashed and the raging West and North, 
sprung from the heavens, roiled heaving breakers up— 
and Odysseus' knees quaked, his spirit too; 
numb with fear he spoke to his own great heart: 
"Wretched man — what becomes of me now, at last? 
I fear the nymph foretold it all too well — 
on the high seas, she said, before I can reach 
my native land I'll fill my cup of pain! And now, 
look, it all comes to pass. What monstrous clouds — 
King Zeus crowning the whole wide heaven black — 
churning the seas in chaos, gales blasting, 
raging around my head from every quarter — 
my death-plunge in a flash, it's certain now! 



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Three, four times blessed, my friends-in-arms 

who died on the plains of Troy those years ago, 

serving the sons of Atreus to the end. Would to god 340 

I'd died there too and met my fate that day the Trojans, 

swarms of them, hurled at me with bronze spears, 

fighting over the corpse of proud Achilles! 

A hero's funeral then, my glory spread by comrades — 

now what a wretched death I'm doomed to die!" 

At that a massive wave came crashing down on his head, 
a terrific onslaught spinning his craft round and round — 
he was thrown clear of the decks — 

the steering-oar wrenched 
from his grasp — 

and in one lightning attack the brawling 
galewinds struck full-force, snapping the mast mid-shaft 350 

and hurling the sail and sailyard far across the sea. 
He went under a good long while, no fast way out, 
no struggling up from under the giant wave's assault, 
his clothing dragged him down — divine Calypso's gifts — 
but at last he fought his way to the surface spewing 
bitter brine, streams of it pouring down his head. 
But half-drowned as he was, he'd not forget his craft — 
he lunged after her through the breakers, laying hold 
and huddling amidships, fled the stroke of death. 

Pell-mell the rollers tossed her along down-current, 360 

wild as the North Wind tossing thistle along the fields 
at high harvest — dry stalks clutching each other tightly — 
so the galewinds tumbled her down the sea, this way, that way, 
now the South Wind flinging her over to North to sport with, 
now the East Wind giving her up to West to harry on and on. 

But someone saw him — Cadmus' daughter with lovely ankles, 
Ino, a mortal woman once with human voice and called 
Leucothea now she lives in the sea's salt depths, 
esteemed by all the gods as she deserves. 

She pitied Odysseus, tossed, tormented so — 370 

she broke from the waves like a shearwater on the wing, 



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lit on the wreck and asked him kindly, "Ah poor man, 

why is the god of earthquakes so dead set against you? 

Strewing your way with such a crop of troubles! 

But he can't destroy you, not for all his anger. 

Just do as I say. You seem no fool to me. 

Strip off those clothes and leave your craft 

for the winds to hurl, and swim for it now, you must, 

strike out with your arms for landfall there, 

Phaeacian land where destined safety waits. 

Here, take this scarf, 

tie it around your waist — it is immortal. 

Nothing to fear now, neither pain nor death. 

But once you grasp the mainland with your hands 

untie it quickly, throw it into the wine-dark sea, 

far from the shore, but you, you turn your head away!" 

With that the goddess handed him the scarf 
and slipped back in the heavy breaking seas 
like a shearwater once again — 
and a dark heaving billow closed above her. 
But battle-weary Odysseus weighed two courses, 
deeply torn, probing his fighting spirit: "Oh no — 
I fear another immortal weaves a snare to trap me, 
urging me to abandon ship! I won't. Not yet. 
That shore's too far away — 
I glimpsed it myself — where she says refuge waits. 
No, here's what I'll do, it's what seems best to me. 
As long as the timbers cling and joints stand fast, 
I'll hold out aboard her and take a whipping — 
once the breakers smash my craft to pieces, 
then I'll swim — no better plan for now." 

But just as great Odysseus thrashed things out, 
Poseidon god of the earthquake launched a colossal wave, 
terrible, murderous, arching over him, pounding down on him, 
hard as a windstorm blasting piles of dry parched chaff, 
scattering flying husks — so the long planks of his boat 
were scattered far and wide. But Odysseus leapt aboard 



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one timber and riding it like a plunging racehorse 

stripped away his clothes, divine Calypso's gifts, 

and quickly tying the scarf around his waist 410 

he dove headfirst in the sea, 

stretched his arms and stroked for life itself. 

But again the mighty god of earthquakes spied him, 

shook his head and grumbled deep in his spirit, "Go, go, 

after all you've suffered — rove your miles of sea — 

till you fall in the arms of people loved by Zeus. 

Even so I can hardly think you'll find 

your punishments too light!" 

With that threat 
he lashed his team with their long flowing manes, 
gaining Aegae port where his famous palace stands. 420 

But Zeus's daughter Athena countered him at once. 
The rest of the winds she stopped right in their tracks, 
commanding them all to hush now, go to sleep. 
All but the boisterous North — she whipped him up 
and the goddess beat the breakers flat before Odysseus, 
dear to Zeus, so he could reach the Phaeacians, 
mingle with men who love their long oars 
and escape his death at last. 

Yes, but now, 
adrift on the heaving swells two nights, two days — 
quite lost — again and again the man foresaw his death. 430 

Then when Dawn with her lovely locks brought on 
the third day, the wind fell in an instant, 
all glazed to a dead calm, and Odysseus, 
scanning sharply, raised high by a groundswell, 
looked up and saw it — landfall, just ahead. 
Joy . . . warm as the joy that children feel 
when they see their father's life dawn again, 
one who's lain on a sickbed racked with torment, 
wasting away, slowly, under some angry power's onslaught — 
then what joy when the gods deliver him from his pains! 440 

So warm, Odysseus' joy when he saw that shore, those trees, 
as he swam on, anxious to plant his feet on solid ground again. 



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But just offshore, as far as a man's shout can carry, 
he caught the boom of a heavy surf on jagged reefs — 
roaring breakers crashing down on an ironbound coast, 
exploding in fury — 

the whole sea shrouded — 

sheets of spray — 
no harbors to hold ships, no roadstead where they'd ride, 
nothing but jutting headlands, riptooth reefs, cliffs. 
Odysseus' knees quaked and the heart inside him sank; 
he spoke to his fighting spirit, desperate: "Worse and worse! 
Now that Zeus has granted a glimpse of land beyond my hopes, 
now I've crossed this waste of water, the end in sight, 
there's no way out of the boiling surf — I see no way! 
Rugged reefs offshore, around them breakers roaring, 
above them a smooth rock face, rising steeply, look, 
and the surge too deep inshore, no spot to stand 
on my own two legs and battle free of death. 
If I clamber out, some big comber will hoist me, 
dash me against that cliff— my struggles all a waste! 
If I keep on swimming down the coast, trying to find 
a seabeach shelving against the waves, a sheltered cove — 
I dread it — another gale will snatch me up and haul me 
back to the fish-infested sea, retching in despair. 
Or a dark power will loose some monster at me, 
rearing out of the waves — one of the thousands 
Amphitrite's breakers teem with. Well I know 
the famous god of earthquakes hates my very name!" 

Just as that fear went churning through his mind 
a tremendous roller swept him toward the rocky coast 
where he'd have been flayed alive, his bones crushed, 
if the bright-eyed goddess Pallas had not inspired him now. 
He lunged for a reef, he seized it with both hands and clung 
for dear life, groaning until the giant wave surged past 
and so he escaped its force, but the breaker's backwash 
charged into him full fury and hurled him out to sea. 
Like pebbles stuck in the suckers of some octopus 
dragged from its lair — so strips of skin torn 



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from his clawing hands stuck to the rock face. 

A heavy sea covered him over, then and there 

unlucky Odysseus would have met his death — 

against the will of Fate — 

but the bright-eyed one inspired him yet again. 

Fighting out from the breakers pounding toward the coast, 

out of danger he swam on, scanning the land, trying to find 

a seabeach shelving against the waves, a sheltered cove, 

and stroking hard he came abreast of a river's mouth, 

running calmly, the perfect spot, he thought . . . 

free of rocks, with a windbreak from the gales. 

As the current flowed he felt the river's god and 

prayed to him in spirit: "Hear me, lord, whoever you are, 

I've come to you, the answer to all my prayers — 

rescue me from the sea, the Sea-lord's curse! 

Even immortal gods will show a man respect, 

whatever wanderer seeks their help — like me — 

I throw myself on your mercy, on your current now — 

I have suffered greatly. Pity me, lord, 

your suppliant cries for help!" 

So the man prayed 
and the god stemmed his current, held his surge at once 
and smoothing out the swells before Odysseus now, 
drew him safe to shore at the river's mouth. 
His knees buckled, massive arms fell limp, 
the sea had beaten down his striving heart. 
His whole body swollen, brine aplenty gushing 
out of his mouth and nostrils — breathless, speechless, 
there he lay, with only a little strength left in him, 
deathly waves of exhaustion overwhelmed him now . . . 
But once he regained his breath and rallied back to life, 
at last he loosed the goddess' scarf from his body, 
dropped it into the river flowing out to sea 
and a swift current bore it far downstream 
and suddenly Ino caught it in her hands. 
Struggling up from the banks, he flung himself 
in the deep reeds, he kissed the good green earth 
and addressed his fighting spirit, desperate still: 



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"Man of misery, what next? Is this the end? 

If I wait out a long tense night by the banks, 

I fear the sharp frost and the soaking dew together 

will do me in — I'm bone-weary, about to breathe my last, 

and a cold wind blows from a river on toward morning. 

But what if I climb that slope, go for the dark woods 520 

and bed down in the thick brush? What if I'm spared 

the chill, fatigue, and a sweet sleep comes my way? 

I fear wild beasts will drag me off as quarry." 

But this was the better course, it struck him now. 
He set out for the woods and not far from the water 
found a grove with a clearing all around and crawled 
beneath two bushy olives sprung from the same root, 
one olive wild, the other well-bred stock. 
No sodden gusty winds could ever pierce them, 

nor could the sun's sharp rays invade their depths, 530 

nor could a downpour drench them through and through, 
so dense they grew together, tangling side-by-side. 
Odysseus crept beneath them, scraping up at once 
a good wide bed for himself with both hands. 
A fine litter of dead leaves had drifted in, 
enough to cover two men over, even three, 
in the wildest kind of winter known to man. 
Long-enduring great Odysseus, overjoyed at the sight, 
bedded down in the midst and heaped the leaves around him. 
As a man will bury his glowing brand in black ashes, 540 

off on a lonely farmstead, no neighbors near, 
to keep a spark alive — no need to kindle fire 
from somewhere else — so great Odysseus buried 
himself in leaves and Athena showered sleep 
upon his eyes . . . sleep in a swift wave 
delivering him from all his pains and labors, 
blessed sleep that sealed his eyes at last. 



BOOK SIX 




The Princess and 
the Stranger 



i3o there he lay at rest, the storm-tossed great Odysseus, 
borne down by his hard labors first and now deep sleep 
as Athena traveled through the countryside 
and reached the Phaeacians' city. Years ago 
they lived in a land of spacious dancing-circles, 
Hyperia, all too close to the overbearing Cyclops, 
stronger, violent brutes who harried them without end. 
So their godlike king, Nausithous, led the people off 
in a vast migration, settled them in Scheria, 
far from the men who toil on this earth — 
he flung up walls around the city, built the houses, 
raised the gods' temples and shared the land for plowing. 
But his fate had long since forced him down to Death 
and now Alcinous ruled, and the gods made him wise. 



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Straight to his house the clear-eyed Pallas went, 

full of plans for great Odysseus' journey home. 

She made her way to the gaily painted room 

where a young girl lay asleep . . . 

a match for the deathless gods in build and beauty, 

Nausicaa, the daughter of generous King Alcinous. 

Two handmaids fair as the Graces slept beside her, 

flanking the two posts, with the gleaming doors closed. 

But the goddess drifted through like a breath of fresh air, 

rushed to the girl's bed and hovering close she spoke, 

in face and form like the shipman Dymas' daughter, 

a girl the princess' age, and dearest to her heart. 

Disguised, the bright-eyed goddess chided, "Nausicaa, 

how could your mother bear a careless girl like you? 

Look at your fine clothes, lying here neglected — 

with your marriage not far off, 

the day you should be decked in all your glory 

and offer elegant dress to those who form your escort. 

That's how a bride's good name goes out across the world 

and it brings her father and queenly mother joy. Come, 

let's go wash these clothes at the break of day — 

I'll help you, lend a hand, and the work will fly! 

You won't stay unwed long. The noblest men 

in the country court you now, all Phaeacians 

just like you, Phaeacia-born and raised. So come, 

first thing in the morning press your kingly father 

to harness the mules and wagon for you, all to carry 

your sashes, dresses, glossy spreads for your bed. 

It's so much nicer for you to ride than go on foot. 

The washing-pools are just too far from town." 

With that 
the bright-eyed goddess sped away to Olympus, where, 
they say, the gods' eternal mansion stands unmoved, 
never rocked by galewinds, never drenched by rains, 
nor do the drifting snows assail it, no, the clear air 
stretches away without a cloud, and a great radiance 
plays across that world where the blithe gods 



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live all their days in bliss. There Athena went, 
once the bright-eyed one had urged the princess on. 

Dawn soon rose on her splendid throne and woke 
Nausicaa finely gowned. Still beguiled by her dream, 
down she went through the house to tell her parents now, 
her beloved father and mother. She found them both inside. 
Her mother sat at the hearth with several waiting-women, 
spinning yarn on a spindle, lustrous sea-blue wool. 
Her father she met as he left to join the lords 
at a council island nobles asked him to attend. 
She stepped up close to him, confiding, "Daddy dear, 
I wonder, won't you have them harness a wagon for me, 
the tall one with the good smooth wheels ... so I 
can take our clothes to the river for a washing? 
Lovely things, but lying before me all soiled. 
And you yourself, sitting among the princes, 
debating points at your council, 
you really should be wearing spotless linen. 
Then you have five sons, full-grown in the palace, 
two of them married, but three are lusty bachelors 
always demanding crisp shirts fresh from the wash 
when they go out to dance. Look at my duties — 
that all rests on me." 

So she coaxed, too shy 
to touch on her hopes for marriage, young warm hopes, 
in her father's presence. But he saw through it all 
and answered quickly, "I won't deny you the mules, 
my darling girl ... I won't deny you anything. 
Off you go, and the men will harness a wagon, 
the tall one with the good smooth wheels, 
fitted out with a cradle on the top." 

With that 
he called to the stablemen and they complied. 
They trundled the wagon out now, rolling smoothly, 
backed the mule-team into the traces, hitched them up, 
while the princess brought her finery from the room 



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and piled it into the wagon's polished cradle. 

Her mother packed a hamper — treats of all kinds, 

favorite things to refresh her daughter's spirits — 

poured wine in a skin, and as Nausicaa climbed aboard, 

the queen gave her a golden flask of suppling olive oil 

for her and her maids to smooth on after bathing. 90 

Then, taking the whip in hand and glistening reins, 

she touched the mules to a start and out they clattered, 

trotting on at a clip, bearing the princess and her clothes 

and not alone: her maids went with her, stepping briskly too. 

Once they reached the banks of the river flowing strong 
where the pools would never fail, with plenty of water 
cool and clear, bubbling up and rushing through 
to scour the darkest stains — they loosed the mules, 
out from under the wagon yoke, and chased them down 
the river's rippling banks to graze on luscious clover. 100 

Down from the cradle they lifted clothes by the armload, 
plunged them into the dark pools and stamped them down 
in the hollows, one girl racing the next to finish first 
until they'd scoured and rinsed off all the grime, 
then they spread them out in a line along the beach 
where the surf had washed a pebbly scree ashore. 
And once they'd bathed and smoothed their skin with oil, 
they took their picnic, sitting along the river's banks 
and waiting for all the clothes to dry in the hot noon sun. 
Now fed to their hearts' content, the princess and her retinue 1 10 

threw their veils to the wind, struck up a game of ball. 
White-armed Nausicaa led their singing, dancing beat . . . 
as lithe as Artemis with her arrows striding down 
from a high peak — Taygetus' towering ridge or Erymanthus — 
thrilled to race with the wild boar or bounding deer, 
and nymphs of the hills race with her, 
daughters of Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder, 
ranging the hills in sport, and Leto's heart exults 
as head and shoulders over the rest her daughter rises, 
unmistakable — she outshines them all, though all are lovely. 120 



172 homer: the odyssey [W9~i0] 

So Nausicaa shone among her maids, a virgin, still unwed. 

But now, as she was about to fold her clothes 
and yoke the mules and turn for home again, 
now clear-eyed Pallas thought of what came next, 
to make Odysseus wake and see this young beauty 
and she would lead him to the Phaeacians' town. 
The ball— 

the princess suddenly tossed it to a maid 
but it missed the girl, splashed in a deep swirling pool 
and they all shouted out — 

and that woke great Odysseus. 
He sat up with a start, puzzling, his heart pounding: 130 

"Man of misery, whose land have I lit on now? 
What are they here — violent, savage, lawless? 
or friendly to strangers, god-fearing men? 
Listen: shouting, echoing round me — women, girls — 
or the nymphs who haunt the rugged mountaintops 
and the river springs and meadows lush with grass! 
Or am I really close to people who speak my language? 
Up with you, see how the land lies, see for yourself now . . ." 

Muttering so, great Odysseus crept out of the bushes, 
stripping off with his massive hand a leafy branch 140 

from the tangled olive growth to shield his body, 
hide his private parts. And out he stalked 
as a mountain lion exultant in his power 
strides through wind and rain and his eyes blaze 
and he charges sheep or oxen or chases wild deer 
but his hunger drives him on to go for flocks, 
even to raid the best-defended homestead. 
So Odysseus moved out . . . 
about to mingle with all those lovely girls, 

naked now as he was, for the need drove him on, 150 

a terrible sight, all crusted, caked with brine — 
they scattered in panic down the jutting beaches. 
Only Alcinous' daughter held fast, for Athena planted 
courage within her heart, dissolved the trembling in her limbs, 



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173 



and she firmly stood her ground and faced Odysseus, torn now — 

Should he fling his arms around her knees, the young beauty, 

plead for help, or stand back, plead with a winning word, 

beg her to lead him to the town and lend him clothing? 

This was the better way, he thought. Plead now 

with a subtle, winning word and stand well back, 

don't clasp her knees, the girl might bridle, yes. 

He launched in at once, endearing, sly and suave: 

"Here I am at your mercy, princess — 

are you a goddess or a mortal? If one of the gods 

who rule the skies up there, you're Artemis to the life, 

the daughter of mighty Zeus — I see her now — just look 

at your build, your bearing, your lithe flowing grace . . . 

But if you're one of the mortals living here on earth, 

three times blest are your father, your queenly mother, 

three times over your brothers too. How often their hearts 

must warm with joy to see you striding into the dances — 

such a bloom of beauty. True, but he is the one 

more blest than all other men alive, that man 

who sways you with gifts and leads you home, his bride! 

I have never laid eyes on anyone like you, 

neither man nor woman . . . 

I look at you and a sense of wonder takes me. 

Wait, 
once I saw the like — in Delos, beside Apollo's altar — 
the young slip of a palm-tree springing into the light. 
There I'd sailed, you see, with a great army in my wake, 
out on the long campaign that doomed my life to hardship. 
That vision! Just as I stood there gazing, rapt, for hours . . . 
no shaft like that had ever risen up from the earth — 
so now I marvel at you, my lady: rapt, enthralled, 
too struck with awe to grasp you by the knees 
though pain has ground me down. 

Only yesterday, 
the twentieth day, did I escape the wine-dark sea. 
Till then the waves and the rushing gales had swept me on 
from the island of Ogygia. Now some power has tossed me here, 
doubtless to suffer still more torments on your shores. 



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I can't believe they'll stop. Long before that 
the gods will give me more, still more. 

Compassion — 
princess, please! You, after all that I have suffered, 
you are the first I've come to. I know no one else, 
none in your city, no one in your land. 
Show me the way to town, give me a rag for cover, 
just some cloth, some wrapper you carried with you here. 
And may the good gods give you all your heart desires: 
husband, and house, and lasting harmony too. 
No finer, greater gift in the world than that . . . 
when man and woman possess their home, two minds, 
two hearts that work as one. Despair to their enemies, 
joy to all their friends. Their own best claim to glory." 

"Stranger," the white-armed princess answered staunchly, 
"friend, you're hardly a wicked man, and no fool, I'd say — 
it's Olympian Zeus himself who hands our fortunes out, 
to each of us in turn, to the good and bad, 
however Zeus prefers . . . 

He gave you pain, it seems. You simply have to bear it. 
But now, seeing you've reached our city and our land, 
you'll never lack for clothing or any other gift, 
the right of worn-out suppliants come our way. 
I'll show you our town, tell you our people's name. 
Phaeacians we are, who hold this city and this land, 
and I am the daughter of generous King Alcinous. 
All our people's power stems from him." 

She called out to her girls with lovely braids: 
"Stop, my friends! Why run when you see a man? 
Surely you don't think him an enemy, do you? 
There's no one alive, there never will be one, 
who'd reach Phaeacian soil and lay it waste. 
The immortals love us far too much for that. 
We live too far apart, out in the surging sea, 
off at the world's end — 
no other mortals come to mingle with us. 



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But here's an unlucky wanderer strayed our way 

and we must tend him well. Every stranger and beggar 

comes from Zeus, and whatever scrap we give him 

he'll be glad to get. So, quick, my girls, 

give our newfound friend some food and drink 

and bathe the man in the river, 

wherever you find some shelter from the wind." 

At that 
they came to a halt and teased each other on 
and led Odysseus down to a sheltered spot 
where he could find a seat, 
just as great Alcinous' daughter told them. 
They laid out cloak and shirt for him to wear, 
they gave him the golden flask of suppling olive oil 
and pressed him to bathe himself in the river's stream. 
Then thoughtful Odysseus reassured the handmaids, 
"Stand where you are, dear girls, a good way off, 
so I can rinse the brine from my shoulders now 
and rub myself with oil . . . 
how long it's been since oil touched my skin! 
But I won't bathe in front of you. I would be embarrassed — 
stark naked before young girls with lovely braids." 

The handmaids scurried off to tell their mistress. 
Great Odysseus bathed in the river, scrubbed his body 
clean of brine that clung to his back and broad shoulders, 
scoured away the brackish scurf that caked his head. 
And then, once he had bathed all over, rubbed in oil 
and donned the clothes the virgin princess gave him, 
Zeus's daughter Athena made him taller to all eyes, 
his build more massive now, and down from his brow 
she ran his curls like thick hyacinth clusters 
full of blooms. As a master craftsman washes 
gold over beaten silver — a man the god of fire 
and Queen Athena trained in every fine technique — 
and finishes off his latest effort, handsome work, 
so she lavished splendor over his head and shoulders now. 
And down to the beach he walked and sat apart, 



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glistening in his glory, breathtaking, yes, 

and the princess gazed in wonder . . . 

then turned to her maids with lovely braided hair: 

"Listen, my white-armed girls, to what I tell you. 

The gods of Olympus can't be all against this man 

who's come to mingle among our noble people. 

At first he seemed appalling, I must say — 

now he seems like a god who rules the skies up there! 

Ah, if only a man like that were called my husband, 270 

lived right here, pleased to stay forever . . . 

Enough. 
Give the stranger food and drink, my girls." 

They hung on her words and did her will at once, 
set before Odysseus food and drink, and he ate and drank, 
the great Odysseus, long deprived, so ravenous now — 
it seemed like years since he had tasted food. 

The white-armed princess thought of one last thing. 
Folding the clothes, she packed them into her painted wagon, 
hitched the sharp-hoofed mules, and climbing up herself, 
Nausicaa urged Odysseus, warmly urged her guest, 280 

"Up with you now, my friend, and off to town we go. 
I'll see you into my wise father's palace where, 
I promise you, you'll meet all the best Phaeacians. 
Wait, let's do it this way. You seem no fool to me. 
While we're passing along the fields and plowlands, 
you follow the mules and wagon, stepping briskly 
with all my maids. I'll lead the way myself. 
But once we reach our city, ringed by walls 
and strong high towers too, with a fine harbor either side . . . 
and the causeway in is narrow; along the road the rolling ships 290 

are all hauled up, with a slipway cleared for every vessel. 
There's our assembly, round Poseidon's royal precinct, 
built of quarried slabs planted deep in the earth. 
Here the sailors tend their black ships' tackle, 
cables and sails, and plane their oarblades down. 
Phaeacians, you see, care nothing for bow or quiver, 



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177 



only for masts and oars and good trim ships themselves — 

we glory in our ships, crossing the foaming seas! 

But I shrink from all our sea-dogs' nasty gossip. 

Some old salt might mock us behind our backs — 300 

we have our share of insolent types in town 

and one of the coarser sort, spying us, might say, 

'Now who's that tall, handsome stranger Nausicaa has in tow? 

Where'd she light on him? Her husband-to-be, just wait! 

But who — some shipwrecked stray she's taken up with, 

some alien from abroad? Since nobody lives nearby. 

Unless it's really a god come down from the blue 

to answer all her prayers, and to have her all his days. 

Good riddance! Let the girl go roving to find herself 

a man from foreign parts. She only spurns her own — 310 

countless Phaeacians round about who court her, 

nothing but our best.' 

So they'll scoff . . . 
just think of the scandal that would face me then. 
I'd find fault with a girl who carried on that way, 
flouting her parents' wishes — father, mother, still alive — 
consorting with men before she'd tied the knot in public. 
No, stranger, listen closely to what I say, the sooner 
to win your swift voyage home at my father's hands. 
Now, you'll find a splendid grove along the road — 

poplars, sacred to Pallas — 320 

a bubbling spring's inside and meadows run around it. 
There lies my father's estate, his blooming orchard too, 
as far from town as a man's strong shout can carry. 
Take a seat there, wait a while, and give us time 
to make it into town and reach my father's house. 
Then, when you think we're home, walk on yourself 
to the city, ask the way to my father's palace, 
generous King Alcinous. You cannot miss it, 
even an innocent child could guide you there. 

No other Phaeacian's house is built like that: 330 

so grand, the palace of Alcinous, our great hero. 
Once the mansion and courtyard have enclosed you, go, 
quickly, across the hall until you reach my mother. 



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Beside the hearth she sits in the fire's glare, 

spinning yarn on a spindle, sea-blue wool — 

a stirring sight, you'll see . . . 

she leans against a pillar, her ladies sit behind. 

And my father's throne is drawn up close beside her; 

there he sits and takes his wine, a mortal like a god. 

Go past him, grasp my mother's knees — if you want 

to see the day of your return, rejoicing, soon, 

even if your home's a world away. 

If only the queen will take you to her heart, 

then there's hope that you will see your loved ones, 

reach your own grand house, your native land at last." 

At that she touched the mules with her shining whip 
and they quickly left the running stream behind. 
The team trotted on, their hoofs wove in and out. 
She drove them back with care so all the rest, 
maids and Odysseus, could keep the pace on foot, 
and she used the whip discreetly. 
The sun sank as they reached the hallowed grove, 
sacred to Athena, where Odysseus stopped and sat 
and said a prayer at once to mighty Zeus's daughter: 
"Hear me, daughter of Zeus whose shield is thunder — 
tireless one, Athena! Now hear my prayer at last, 
for you never heard me then, when I was shattered, 
when the famous god of earthquakes wrecked my craft. 
Grant that here among the Phaeacian people 
I may find some mercy and some love!" 

So he prayed and Athena heard his prayer 
but would not yet appear to him undisguised. 
She stood in awe of her Father's brother, lord of the sea 
who still seethed on, still churning with rage against 
the great Odysseus till he reached his native land. 



BOOK SEVEN 



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Phaeacia's Halls 
and Gardens 

INow as Odysseus, long an exile, prayed in Athena's grove, 

the hardy mule-team drew the princess toward the city. 

Reaching her father's splendid halls, she reined in, 

just at the gates — her brothers clustering round her, 

men like gods, released the mules from the yoke 

and brought the clothes indoors 

as Nausicaa made her way toward her bedroom. 

There her chambermaid lit a fire for her — 

Eurymedusa, the old woman who'd come from Apiraea 

years ago, when the rolling ships had sailed her in 

and the country picked her out as King Alcinous' prize, 

for he ruled all the Phaeacians, they obeyed him like a god. 

Once, she had nursed the white-armed princess in the palace. 

Now she lit a fire and made her supper in the room. 



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BOOK 1\ PHAEACIA S HALLS AND GARDENS 



At the same time, Odysseus set off toward the city. 
Pallas Athena, harboring kindness for the hero, 
drifted a heavy mist around him, shielding him 
from any swaggering islander who'd cross his path, 
provoke him with taunts and search out who he was. 
Instead, as he was about to enter the welcome city, 
the bright-eyed goddess herself came up to greet him there, 
for all the world like a young girl, holding a pitcher, 
standing face-to-face with the visitor, who asked, 
"Little girl, now wouldn't you be my guide 
to the palace of the one they call Alcinous? 
The king who rules the people of these parts. 
I am a stranger, you see, weighed down with troubles, 
come this way from a distant, far-off shore. 
So I know no one here, none at all 
in your city and the farmlands round about." 

"Oh yes, sir, 
good old stranger," the bright-eyed goddess said, 
"I'll show you the very palace that you're after — 
the king lives right beside my noble father. 
Come, quietly too, and I will lead the way. 
Now not a glance at anyone, not a question. 
The men here never suffer strangers gladly, 
have no love for hosting a man from foreign lands. 
All they really trust are their fast, flying ships 
that cross the mighty ocean. Gifts of Poseidon, 
ah what ships they are — 
quick as a bird, quick as a darting thought!" 

And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead 
as he followed in her footsteps, man and goddess. 
But the famed Phaeacian sailors never saw him, 
right in their midst, striding down their streets. 
Athena the one with lovely braids would not permit it, 
the awesome goddess poured an enchanted mist around him, 
harboring kindness for Odysseus in her heart. 
And he marveled now at the balanced ships and havens, 



20 



30 



40 



the meeting grounds of the great lords and the long ramparts 

looming, coped and crowned with palisades of stakes — 

an amazing sight to see . . . 

And once they reached the king's resplendent halls 

the bright-eyed goddess cried out, "Good old stranger, 

here, here is the very palace that you're after — 

I've pointed you all the way. Here you'll find 

our princes dear to the gods, busy feasting. 

You go on inside. Be bold, nothing to fear. 

In every venture the bold man comes off best, 

even the wanderer, bound from distant shores. 

The queen is the first you'll light on in the halls. 

Arete, she is called, and earns the name: 

she answers all our prayers. She comes, in fact, 

from the same stock that bred our King Alcinous. 

First came Nausithous, son of the earthquake god 

Poseidon and Periboea, the lovely, matchless beauty, 

the youngest daughter of iron-willed Eurymedon, 

king of the overweening Giants years ago. 

He led that reckless clan to its own ruin, 

killed himself in the bargain, but the Sea-lord 

lay in love with Periboea and she produced a son, 

Nausithous, that lionheart who ruled Phaeacia well. 

Now, Nausithous had two sons, Rhexenor and Alcinous, 

but the lord of the silver bow, Apollo, shot Rhexenor down — 

married, true, yet still without a son in the halls, 

he left one child behind, a daughter named Arete. 

Alcinous made the girl his wife and honors her 

as no woman is honored on this earth, of all the wives 

now keeping households under their husbands' sway. 

Such is her pride of place, and always will be so: 

dear to her loving children, to Alcinous himself 

and all our people. They gaze on her as a god, 

saluting her warmly on her walks through town. 

She lacks nothing in good sense and judgment — 

she can dissolve quarrels, even among men, 

whoever wins her sympathies. 



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If only our queen will take you to her heart, 

then there's hope that you will see your loved ones, 

reach your high-roofed house, your native land at last." 

And with that vow the bright-eyed goddess sped away, 
over the barren sea, leaving welcome Scheria far behind, 
and reaching Marathon and the spacious streets of Athens, 
entered Erechtheus' sturdy halls, Athena's stronghold. 
Now as Odysseus approached Alcinous' famous house 
a rush of feelings stirred within his heart, 
bringing him to a standstill, 
even before he crossed the bronze threshold . . . 
A radiance strong as the moon or rising sun came flooding 
through the high-roofed halls of generous King Alcinous. 
Walls plated in bronze, crowned with a circling frieze 
glazed as blue as lapis, ran to left and right 
from outer gates to the deepest court recess. 
Solid golden doors enclosed the palace. 
Up from the bronze threshold silver doorposts rose 
with silver lintel above, and golden handle hooks. 
And dogs of gold and silver were stationed either side, 
forged by the god of fire with all his cunning craft 
to keep watch on generous King Alcinous' palace now, 
his immortal guard-dogs, ageless, all their days. 
Inside to left and right, in a long unbroken row 
from farthest outer gate to the inmost chamber, 
thrones stood backed against the wall, each draped 
with a finely spun brocade, women's handsome work. 
Here the Phaeacian lords would sit enthroned, 
dining, drinking — the feast flowed on forever. 
And young boys, molded of gold, set on pedestals 
standing firm, were lifting torches high in their hands 
to flare through the nights and light the feasters down the hall. 
And Alcinous has some fifty serving-women in his house: 
some, turning the handmill, grind the apple-yellow grain, 
some weave at their webs or sit and spin their yarn, 
fingers flickering quick as aspen leaves in the wind 
and the densely woven woolens dripping oil droplets. 



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Just as Phaeacian men excel the world at sailing, 
driving their swift ships on the open seas, 
so the women excel at all the arts of weaving. 
That is Athena's gift to them beyond all others — 
a genius for lovely work, and a fine mind too. 

Outside the courtyard, fronting the high gates, 
a magnificent orchard stretches four acres deep 
with a strong fence running round it side-to-side. 
Here luxuriant trees are always in their prime, 
pomegranates and pears, and apples glowing red, 
succulent figs and olives swelling sleek and dark. 
And the yield of all these trees will never flag or die, 
neither in winter nor in summer, a harvest all year round 
for the West Wind always breathing through will bring 
some fruits to the bud and others warm to ripeness — 
pear mellowing ripe on pear, apple on apple, 
cluster of grapes on cluster, fig crowding fig. 
And here is a teeming vineyard planted for the kings, 
beyond it an open level bank where the vintage grapes 
lie baking to raisins in the sun while pickers gather others; 
some they trample down in vats, and here in the front rows 
bunches of unripe grapes have hardly shed their blooms 
while others under the sunlight slowly darken purple. 
And there by the last rows are beds of greens, 
bordered and plotted, greens of every kind, 
glistening fresh, year in, year out. And last, 
there are two springs, one rippling in channels 
over the whole orchard — the other, flanking it, 
rushes under the palace gates 
to bubble up in front of the lofty roofs 
where the city people come and draw their water. 

Such 
the gifts, the glories showered down by the gods 
on King Alcinous' realm. 

And there Odysseus stood, 
gazing at all this bounty, a man who'd borne so much . . . 
Once he'd had his fill of marveling at it all, 



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he crossed the threshold quickly, 
strode inside the palace. Here he found 
the Phaeacian lords and captains tipping out 
libations now to the guide and giant-killer Hermes, 
the god to whom they would always pour the final cup 
before they sought their beds. Odysseus went on 
striding down the hall, the man of many struggles 
shrouded still in the mist Athena drifted round him, 
till he reached Arete and Alcinous the king. And then, 
the moment he flung his arms around Arete's knees, 
the godsent mist rolled back to reveal the great man. 
And silence seized the feasters all along the hall — 
seeing him right before their eyes, they marveled, 
gazing on him now as Odysseus pleaded, "Queen, 
Arete, daughter of godlike King Rhexenor! 
Here after many trials I come to beg for mercy, 
your husband's, yours, and all these feasters' here. 
May the gods endow them with fortune all their lives, 
may each hand down to his sons the riches in his house 
and the pride of place the realm has granted him. 
But as for myself, grant me a rapid convoy home 
to my own native land. How far away I've been 
from all my loved ones — how long I have suffered!" 

Pleading so, the man sank down in the ashes, 
just at the hearth beside the blazing fire, 
while all the rest stayed hushed, stock-still. 
At last the old revered Echeneus broke the spell, 
the eldest lord in Phaeacia, finest speaker too, 
a past master at all the island's ancient ways. 
Impelled by kindness now, he rose and said, 
"This is no way, Alcinous. How indecent, look, 
our guest on the ground, in the ashes by the fire! 
Your people are holding back, waiting for your signal. 
Come, raise him up and seat the stranger now, 
in a silver-studded chair, 
and tell the heralds to mix more wine for all 
so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, 



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champion of suppliants — suppliants' rights are sacred. 
And let the housekeeper give our guest his supper, 
unstinting with her stores." 

Hearing that, 
Alcinous, poised in all his majesty, took the hand 
of the seasoned, worldly-wise Odysseus, raised him up 
from the hearth and sat him down in a burnished chair, 
displacing his own son, the courtly Lord Laodamas 
who had sat beside him, the son he loved the most. 
A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher 
and over a silver basin tipped it out 
so the guest might rinse his hands, 
then pulled a gleaming table to his side. 
A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve him, 
appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. 
As long-suffering great Odysseus ate and drank, 
the hallowed King Alcinous called his herald: 
"Come, Pontonous! Mix the wine in the bowl, 
pour rounds to all our banqueters in the house 
so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, 
champion of suppliants — suppliants' rights are sacred." 

At that Pontonous mixed the heady, honeyed wine 
and tipped first drops for the god in every cup, 
then poured full rounds for all. And once they'd poured 
libations out and drunk to their hearts' content, 
Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: 
"Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, 
hear what the heart inside me has to say. 
Now, our feast finished, home you go to sleep. 
But at dawn we call the elders in to full assembly, 
host our guest in the palace, sacrifice to the gods 
and then we turn our minds to his passage home, 
so under our convoy our new friend can travel back 
to his own land — no toil, no troubles — soon, 
rejoicing, even if his home's a world away. 
And on the way no pain or hardship suffered, 
not till he sets foot on native ground again. 



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There in the future he must suffer all that Fate 

and the overbearing Spinners spun out on his life line 

the very day his mother gave him birth ... But if 

he's one of the deathless powers, out of the blue, 

the gods are working now in strange, new ways. 

Always, up to now, they came to us face-to-face 

whenever we'd give them grand, glorious sacrifices — 

they always sat beside us here and shared our feasts. 

Even when some lonely traveler meets them on the roads, 240 

they never disguise themselves. We're too close kin for that, 

close as the wild Giants are, the Cyclops too." 

"Alcinous!" 
wary Odysseus countered, "cross that thought from your mind. 
I'm nothing like the immortal gods who rule the skies, 
either in build or breeding. I'm just a mortal man. 
Whom do you know most saddled down with sorrow? 
They are the ones I'd equal, grief for grief. 
And I could tell a tale of still more hardship, 
all I've suffered, thanks to the gods' will. 

But despite my misery, let me finish dinner. 250 

The belly's a shameless dog, there's nothing worse. 
Always insisting, pressing, it never lets us forget — 
destroyed as I am, my heart racked with sadness, 
sick with anguish, still it keeps demanding, 
'Eat, drink!' It blots out all the memory 
of my pain, commanding, 'Fill me up!' 

But you, 
at the first light of day, hurry, please, 
to set your unlucky guest on his own home soil. 
How much I have suffered . . . Oh just let me see 

my lands, my serving-men and the grand high-roofed house — 260 

then I can die in peace." 

All burst into applause, 
urging passage home for their newfound friend, 
his pleading rang so true. And once they'd poured 
libations out and drunk to their hearts' content, 
each one made his way to rest in his own house. 



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BOOK 7: PHAEACIA'S HALLS AND GARDENS 



187 



But King Odysseus still remained at hall, 

seated beside the royal Alcinous and Arete 

as servants cleared the cups and plates away. 

The white-armed Queen Arete took the lead; 

she'd spotted the cape and shirt Odysseus wore, 

fine clothes she'd made herself with all her women, 

so now her words flew brusquely, sharply: "Stranger, 

I'll be the first to question you — myself. 

Who are you? Where are you from? 

Who gave you the clothes you're wearing now? 

Didn't you say you reached us roving on the sea?" 

"What hard labor, queen," the man of craft replied, 
"to tell you the story of my troubles start to finish. 
The gods on high have given me my share. Still, 
this much I will tell you . . . 
seeing you probe and press me so intently. 
There is an island, Ogygia, lying far at sea, 
where the daughter of Atlas, Calypso, has her home, 
the seductive nymph with lovely braids — a danger too, 
and no one, god or mortal, dares approach her there. But I, 
cursed as I am, some power brought me to her hearth, 
alone, when Zeus with a white-hot bolt had crushed 
my racing warship down the wine-dark sea. 
There all the rest of my loyal shipmates died 
but I, locking my arms around my good ship's keel, 
drifted along nine days. On the tenth, at dead of night, 
the gods cast me up on Ogygia, Calypso's island, 
home of the dangerous nymph with glossy braids, 
and the goddess took me in in all her kindness, 
welcomed me warmly, cherished me, even vowed 
to make me immortal, ageless, all my days — 
but she never won the heart inside me, never. 
Seven endless years I remained there, always drenching 
with my tears the immortal clothes Calypso gave me. 
Then, at last, when the eighth came wheeling round, 
she insisted that I sail — inspired by warnings sent 



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from Zeus, perhaps, or her own mind had changed. 

She saw me on my way in a solid craft, 

tight and trim, and gave me full provisions, 

food and mellow wine, immortal clothes to wear 

and summoned a wind to bear me onward, fair and warm. 

And seventeen days I sailed, making headway well; 

on the eighteenth, shadowy mountains slowly loomed . . . 

your land! My heart leapt up, unlucky as I am, 

doomed to be comrade still to many hardships. 

Many pains the god of earthquakes piled upon me, 

loosing the winds against me, blocking passage through, 

heaving up a terrific sea, beyond belief — nor did the whitecaps 

let me cling to my craft, for all my desperate groaning. 

No, the squalls shattered her stem to stern, but I, 

I swam hard, I plowed my way through those dark gulfs 

till at last the wind and current bore me to your shores. 

But here, had I tried to land, the breakers would have hurled me, 

smashed me against the jagged cliffs of that grim coast, 

so I pulled away, swam back till I reached a river, 

the perfect spot at last, or so it struck me, 

free of rocks, with a windbreak from the gales. 

So, fighting for life, I flung myself ashore 

and the godsent, bracing night came on at once. 

Clambering up from the river, big with Zeus's rains, 

I bedded down in the brush, my body heaped with leaves, 

and a god poured down a boundless sleep upon me, yes, 

and there in the leaves, exhausted, sick at heart, 

I slept the whole night through 

and on to the break of day and on into high noon 

and the sun was wheeling down when sweet sleep set me free. 

And I looked up, and there were your daughter's maids 

at play on the beach, and she, she moved among them 

like a deathless goddess! I begged her for help 

and not once did her sense of tact desert her; 

she behaved as you'd never hope to find 

in one so young, not in a random meeting — 

time and again the youngsters prove so flighty. 

Not she. She gave me food aplenty and shining wine, 



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a bath in the river too, and gave me all this clothing. 
That's my whole story. Wrenching to tell, but true." 

"Ah, but in one regard, my friend," the king replied, 
"her good sense missed the mark, this daughter of mine. 
She never escorted you to our house with all her maids 
but she was the first you asked for care and shelter." 

"Your majesty," diplomatic Odysseus answered, 
"don't find fault with a flawless daughter now, 
not for my sake, please. 

She urged me herself to follow with her maids. 
I chose not to, fearing embarrassment in fact — 
what if you took offense, seeing us both together? 
Suspicious we are, we men who walk the earth." 

"Oh no, my friend," Alcinous stated flatly, 
"I'm hardly a man for reckless, idle anger. 
Balance is best in all things. 
Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo! if only — 
seeing the man you are, seeing we think as one — 
you could wed my daughter and be my son-in-law 
and stay right here with us. I'd give you a house 
and great wealth — if you chose to stay, that is. 
No Phaeacian would hold you back by force. 
The curse of Father Zeus on such a thing! 
And about your convoy home, you rest assured: 
I have chosen the day and I decree it is tomorrow. 
And all that voyage long you'll lie in a deep sleep 
while my people sail you on through calm and gentle tides 
till you reach your land and house, or any place you please. 
True, even if landfall lies more distant than Euboea, 
off at the edge of the world . . . 
So say our crews, at least, who saw it once, 
that time they carried the gold-haired Rhadamanthys 
out to visit Tityus, son of Mother Earth. Imagine, 
there they sailed and back they came in the same day, 
they finished the homeward run with no strain at all. 



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You'll see for yourself how far they top the best — 
my ships and their young shipmates 
tossing up the whitecaps with their oars!" 

So he vowed 
and the long-enduring great Odysseus glowed with joy 
and raised a prayer and called the god by name: 
"Father Zeus on high — 
may the king fulfill his promises one and all! 
Then his fame would ring through the fertile earth 
and never die — and I should reach my native land at last!" 



BOOK EIGHT 



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And now as the two men exchanged their hopes, 
the white-armed queen instructed her palace maids 
to make a bed in the porch's shelter, lay down 
some heavy purple throws for the bed itself, 
and over it spread some blankets, thick woolly robes, 
a warm covering laid on top. Torches in hand, 
they left the hall and fell to work at once, 
briskly prepared a good snug resting-place 
and then returned to Odysseus, urged the guest, 
"Up, friend, time for sleep. Your bed is made." 
How welcome the thought of sleep to that man now . . . 
So there after many trials Odysseus lay at rest 
on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade. 
Alcinous slept in chambers deep in his lofty house 
where the queen his wife arranged and shared their bed. 



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A Day for Songs 
and Contests 



When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 

royal Alcinous, hallowed island king, rose from bed 

and great Odysseus, raider of cities, rose too. 

Poised in his majesty, Alcinous led the way 

to Phaeacia's meeting grounds, built for all 

beside the harbored ships. Both men sat down 

on the polished stone benches side-by-side 

as Athena started roaming up and down the town, 

in build and voice the wise Alcinous' herald, 

furthering plans for Odysseus' journey home, 

and stopped beside each citizen, urged them all, 

"Come this way, you lords and captains of Phaeacia, 

come to the meeting grounds and learn about the stranger! 

A new arrival! Here at our wise king's palace now, 

he's here from roving the ocean, driven far off course — 



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he looks like a deathless god!" 

Rousing their zeal, 
their curiosity, each and every man, and soon enough 
the assembly seats were filled with people thronging, 
gazing in wonder at the seasoned man of war . . . 
Over Odysseus' head and shoulders now 
Athena lavished a marvelous splendor, yes, 
making him taller, more massive to all eyes, 
so Phaeacians might regard the man with kindness, 
awe and respect as well, and he might win through 
the many trials they'd pose to test the hero's strength. 
Once they'd grouped, crowding the meeting grounds, 
Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: 
"Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, 
hear what the heart inside me has to say. 
This stranger here, our guest — 
I don't know who he is, or whether he comes 
from sunrise lands or the western lands of evening, 
but he has come in his wanderings to my palace; 
he pleads for passage, he begs we guarantee it. 
So now, as in years gone by, let us press on 
and grant him escort. No one, I tell you, no one 
who comes to my house will languish long here, 
heartsick for convoy home. 

Come, my people! 
Haul a black ship down to the bright sea, 
rigged for her maiden voyage — 
enlist a crew of fifty-two young sailors, 
the best in town, who've proved their strength before. 
Let all hands lash their oars to the thwarts then disembark, 
come to my house and fall in for a banquet, quickly. 
I'll lay on a princely feast for all. So then, 
these are the orders I issue to our crews. 
For the rest, you sceptered princes here, 
you come to my royal halls so we can give 
this stranger a hero's welcome in our palace — 
no one here refuse. Call in the inspired bard 
Demodocus. God has given the man the gift of song, 



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to him beyond all others, the power to please, 
however the spirit stirs him on to sing." 

With those commands Alcinous led the way 
and a file of sceptered princes took his lead, 
while the herald went to find the gifted bard. 
And the fifty-two young sailors, duly chosen, 
briskly following orders, 
went down to the shore of the barren salt sea. 
And once they reached the ship at the surf's edge, 
first they hauled the craft into deeper water, 
stepped the mast amidships, canvas brailed, 
they made oars fast in the leather oarlock straps, 
moored her riding high on the swell, then disembarked 
and made their way to wise Alcinous' high-roofed halls. 
There colonnades and courts and rooms were overflowing 
with crowds, a mounting host of people young and old. 
The king slaughtered a dozen sheep to feed his guests, 
eight boars with shining tusks and a pair of shambling oxen. 
These they skinned and dressed, and then laid out a feast 
to fill the heart with savor. 

In came the herald now, 
leading along the faithful bard the Muse adored 
above all others, true, but her gifts were mixed 
with good and evil both: she stripped him of sight 
but gave the man the power of stirring, rapturous song. 
Pontonous brought the bard a silver-studded chair, 
right amid the feasters, leaning it up against 
a central column — hung his high clear lyre 
on a peg above his head and showed him how 
to reach up with his hands and lift it down. 
And the herald placed a table by his side 
with a basket full of bread and cup of wine 
for him to sip when his spirit craved refreshment. 
All reached out for the good things that lay at hand 
and when they'd put aside desire for food and drink, 
the Muse inspired the bard 
to sing the famous deeds of fighting heroes — 



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the song whose fame had reached the skies those days: 

The Strife Between Odysseus and Achilles, Peleus' Son . . . 

how once at the gods' flowing feast the captains clashed 

in a savage war of words, while Agamemnon, lord of armies, 

rejoiced at heart that Achaea's bravest men were battling so. 

For this was the victory sign that Apollo prophesied 

at his shrine in Pytho when Agamemnon strode across 

the rocky threshold, asking the oracle for advice — 

the start of the tidal waves of ruin tumbling down 

on Troy's and Achaea's forces, both at once, 

thanks to the will of Zeus who rules the world. 

That was the song the famous harper sang 
but Odysseus, clutching his flaring sea-blue cape 
in both powerful hands, drew it over his head 
and buried his handsome face, 
ashamed his hosts might see him shedding tears. 
Whenever the rapt bard would pause in the song, 
he'd lift the cape from his head, wipe off his tears 
and hoisting his double-handled cup, pour it out to the gods. 
But soon as the bard would start again, impelled to sing 
by Phaeacia's lords, who reveled in his tale, 
again Odysseus hid his face and wept. 
His weeping went unmarked by all the others; 
only Alcinous, sitting close beside him, 
noticed his guest's tears, 

heard the groan in the man's labored breathing 
and said at once to the master mariners around him, 
"Hear me, my lords and captains of Phaeacia! 
By now we've had our fill of food well-shared 
and the lyre too, our loyal friend at banquets. 
Now out we go again and test ourselves in contests, 
games of every kind— so our guest can tell his friends, 
when he reaches home, how far we excel the world 
at boxing, wrestling, jumping, speed of foot." 

He forged ahead and the rest fell in behind. 
The herald hung the ringing lyre back on its peg 



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and taking Demodocus by the hand, led him from the palace, 

guiding him down the same path the island lords 

had just pursued, keen to watch the contests. 

They reached the meeting grounds 

with throngs of people streaming in their trail 

as a press of young champions rose for competition. 

Topsail and Riptide rose, the helmsman Rowhard too 

and Seaman and Sternman, Surf-at-the-Beach and Stroke-Oar, 

Breaker and Bowsprit, Racing-the-Wind and Swing-Aboard 

and Seagirt the son of Greatfleet, Shipwrightson 

and the son of Launcher, Broadsea, rose up too, 

a match for murderous Ares, death to men — 

in looks and build the best of all Phaeacians 

after gallant Laodamas, the Captain of the People. 

Laodamas rose with two more sons of great Alcinous, 

Halius bred to the sea and Clytoneus famed for ships. 

And now the games began, the first event a footrace . . . 

They toed the line — 

and broke flat out from the start 
with a fast pack flying down the field in a whirl of dust 
and Clytoneus the prince outstripped them all by far, 
flashing ahead the length two mules will plow a furrow 
before he turned for home, leaving the pack behind 
and raced to reach the crowds. 

Next the wrestling, 
grueling sport. They grappled, locked, and Broadsea, 
pinning the strongest champions, won the bouts. 
Next, in the jumping, Seagirt leapt and beat the field. 
In the discus Rowhard up and outhurled them all by far. 
And the king's good son Laodamas boxed them to their knees. 
When all had enjoyed the games to their hearts' content 
Alcinous' son Laodamas spurred them: "Come, my friends, 
let's ask our guest if he knows the ropes of any sport. 
He's no mean man, not with a build like that . . . 
Look at his thighs, his legs, and what a pair of arms — 
his massive neck, his big, rippling strength! 
Nor is he past his prime, 
just beaten down by one too many blows. 



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Nothing worse than the sea, I always say, 
to crush a man, the strongest man alive." 

And Broadsea put in quickly, 
"Well said, Laodamas, right to the point. 
Go up to the fellow, challenge him yourself." 

On that cue, the noble prince strode up 
before Odysseus, front and center, asking, 
"Come, stranger, sir, won't you try your hand 
at our contests now? If you have skill in any. 
It's fit and proper for you to know your sports. 
What greater glory attends a man, while he's alive, 
than what he wins with his racing feet and striving hands? 
Come and compete then, throw your cares to the wind! 
It won't be long, your journey's not far off — 
your ship's already hauled down to the sea, 
your crew is set to sail." 

"Laodamas," 
quick to the mark Odysseus countered sharply, 
"why do you taunt me so with such a challenge? 
Pains weigh on my spirit now, not your sports — 
I've suffered much already, struggled hard. 
But here I sit amid your assembly still, 
starved for passage home, begging your king, 
begging all your people." 

"Oh I knew it!" 
Broadsea broke in, mocking him to his face. 
"I never took you for someone skilled in games, 
the kind that real men play throughout the world. 
Not a chance. You're some skipper of profiteers, 
roving the high seas in his scudding craft, 
reckoning up his freight with a keen eye out 
for home-cargo, grabbing the gold he can! 
You're no athlete. I see that." 

With a dark glance 
wily Odysseus shot back, "Indecent talk, my friend. 



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You, you're a reckless fool — I see that. So, 

the gods don't hand out all their gifts at once, 

not build and brains and flowing speech to all. 

One man may fail to impress us with his looks 

but a god can crown his words with beauty, charm, 

and men look on with delight when he speaks out. 

Never faltering, filled with winning self-control, 

he shines forth at assembly grounds and people gaze 

at him like a god when he walks through the streets. 

Another man may look like a deathless one on high 

but there's not a bit of grace to crown his words. 

Just like you, my fine, handsome friend. Not even 

a god could improve those lovely looks of yours 

but the mind inside is worthless. 

Your slander fans the anger in my heart! 

I'm no stranger to sports — for all your taunts — 

I've held my place in the front ranks, I tell you, 

long as I could trust to my youth and striving hands. 

But now I'm wrestled down by pain and hardship, look, 

I've borne my share of struggles, cleaving my way 

through wars of men and pounding waves at sea. 

Nevertheless, despite so many blows, 

I'll give your games a whirl. Your insults 

cut to the quick — you rouse my fighting blood!" 

Up he sprang, cloak and all, and seized a discus, 
huge and heavy, more weighty by far than those 
the Phaeacians used to hurl and test each other. 
Wheeling round, he let loose with his great hand 
and the stone whirred on — and down to ground they went, 
those lords of the long oars and master mariners cringing 
under the rock's onrush, soaring lightly out of his grip, 
flying away past all the other marks, and Queen Athena, 
built like a man, staked out the spot and cried 
with a voice of triumph, "Even a blind man, 
friend, could find your mark by groping round — 
it's not mixed up in the crowd, it's far in front! 



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There's nothing to fear in this event — 

no one can touch you, much less beat your distance!" 

At that the heart of the long-suffering hero laughed, 
so glad to find a ready friend in the crowd that, 
lighter in mood, he challenged all Phaeacia's best: 
"Now go match that, you young pups, and straightaway 
I'll hurl you another just as far, I swear, or even farther! 
All the rest of you, anyone with the spine and spirit, 
step right up and try me — you've incensed me so — 
at boxing, wrestling, racing; nothing daunts me. 
Any Phaeacian here except Laodamas himself. 
The man's my host. Who would fight his friend? 
He'd have to be good-for-nothing, senseless, yes, 
to challenge his host and come to grips in games, 
in a far-off land at that. He'd cut his own legs short. 
But there are no others I'd deny or think beneath me — 
I'll take on all contenders, gladly, test them head-to-head! 
I'm not half bad in the world of games where men compete. 
Well I know how to handle a fine polished bow, 
the first to hit my man in a mass of enemies, 
even with rows of comrades pressing near me, 
taking aim with our shafts to hit our targets. 
Philoctetes alone outshot me there at Troy 
when ranks of Achaean archers bent their bows. 
Of the rest I'd say that I outclass them all — 
men still alive, who eat their bread on earth. 
But I'd never vie with the men of days gone by, 
not Heracles, not Eurytus of Oechalia — archers 
who rivaled immortal powers with their bows. 
That's why noble Eurytus died a sudden death: 
no old age, creeping upon him in his halls . . . 
Apollo shot him down, enraged that the man 
had challenged him, the Archer God. 

As for spears, 
I can fling a spear as far as the next man wings an arrow! 
Only at sprinting I fear you'd leave me in the dust. 
I've taken a shameful beating out on heavy seas, 



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no conditioning there on shipboard day by day. 
My legs have lost their spring." 

He finished. All stood silent, hushed. 
Only Alcinous found a way to answer. "Stranger, 
friend — nothing you say among us seems ungracious. 
You simply want to display the gifts you're born with, 
stung that a youngster marched up to you in the games, 270 

mocking, ridiculing your prowess as no one would 
who had some sense of fit and proper speech. 
But come now, hear me out, 
so you can tell our story to other lords 
as you sit and feast in your own halls someday, 
your own wife and your children by your side, 
remembering there our island prowess here: 
what skills great Zeus has given us as well, 
down all the years from our fathers' days till now. 

We're hardly world-class boxers or wrestlers, I admit, 280 

but we can race like the wind, we're champion sailors too, 
and always dear to our hearts, the feast, the lyre and dance 
and changes of fresh clothes, our warm baths and beds. 
So come — all you Phaeacian masters of the dance — 
now dance away! So our guest can tell his friends, 
when he reaches home, how far we excel the world 
in sailing, nimble footwork, dance and song. 

Go, someone, 
quickly, fetch Demodocus now his ringing lyre. 
It must be hanging somewhere in the palace." 

At the king's word the herald sprang to his feet 290 

and ran to fetch the ringing lyre from the house. 
And stewards rose, nine in all, picked from the realm 
to set the stage for contests: masters-at-arms who 
leveled the dancing-floor to make a fine broad ring. 
The herald returned and placed the vibrant lyre now 
in Demodocus' hands, and the bard moved toward the center, 
flanked by boys in the flush of youth, skilled dancers 
who stamped the ground with marvelous pulsing steps 



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as Odysseus gazed at their flying, flashing feet, 
his heart aglow with wonder. 

A rippling prelude — 
now the bard struck up an irresistible song: 
The Love of Ares and Aphrodite Crowned with Flowers . . . 
how the two had first made love in Hephaestus' mansion, 
all in secret. Ares had showered her with gifts 
and showered Hephaestus' marriage bed with shame 
but a messenger ran to tell the god of fire — 
Helios, lord of the sun, who'd spied the couple 
lost in each other's arms and making love. 
Hephaestus, hearing the heart-wounding story, 
bustled toward his forge, brooding on his revenge — 
planted the huge anvil on its block and beat out chains, 
not to be slipped or broken, all to pin the lovers on the spot. 
This snare the Firegod forged, ablaze with his rage at War, 
then limped to the room where the bed of love stood firm 
and round the posts he poured the chains in a sweeping net 
with streams of others flowing down from the roofbeam, 
gossamer-fine as spider webs no man could see, 
not even a blissful god — 
the Smith had forged a masterwork of guile. 
Once he'd spun that cunning trap around his bed 
he feigned a trip to the well-built town of Lemnos, 
dearest to him by far of all the towns on earth. 
But the god of battle kept no blind man's watch. 
As soon as he saw the Master Craftsman leave 
he plied his golden reins and arrived at once 
and entered the famous god of fire's mansion, 
chafing with lust for Aphrodite crowned with flowers. 
She'd just returned from her father's palace, mighty Zeus, 
and now she sat in her rooms as Ares strode right in 
and grasped her hand with a warm, seductive urging: 
"Quick, my darling, come, let's go to bed 
and lose ourselves in love! Your husband's away — 
by now he must be off in the wilds of Lemnos, 
consorting with his raucous Sintian friends." 

So he pressed 



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and her heart raced with joy to sleep with War 

and off they went to bed and down they lay — 

and down around them came those cunning chains 

of the crafty god of fire, showering down now 

till the couple could not move a limb or lift a finger — 

then they knew at last: there was no way out, not now. 340 

But now the glorious crippled Smith was drawing near . . . 

he'd turned around, miles short of the Lemnos coast, 

for the Sungod kept his watch and told Hephaestus all, 

so back he rushed to his house, his heart consumed with anguish. 

Halting there at the gates, seized with savage rage 

he howled a terrible cry, imploring all the gods, 

"Father Zeus, look here — 

the rest of you happy gods who live forever — 

here is a sight to make you laugh, revolt you too! 

Just because I am crippled, Zeus's daughter Aphrodite 350 

will always spurn me and love that devastating Ares, 

just because of his stunning looks and racer's legs 

while I am a weakling, lame from birth, and who's to blame? 

Both my parents — who else? If only they'd never bred me! 

Just look at the two lovers . . . crawled inside my bed, 

locked in each other's arms — the sight makes me burn! 

But I doubt they'll want to lie that way much longer, 

not a moment more — mad as they are for each other. 

No, they'll soon tire of bedding down together, 

but then my cunning chains will bind them fast 360 

till our Father pays my bride-gifts back in full, 

all I handed him for that shameless bitch his daughter, 

irresistible beauty — all unbridled too!" 

So Hephaestus wailed 
as the gods came crowding up to his bronze-floored house. 
Poseidon god of the earthquake came, and Hermes came, 
the running god of luck, and the Archer, lord Apollo, 
while modesty kept each goddess to her mansion. 
The immortals, givers of all good things, stood at the gates, 
and uncontrollable laughter burst from the happy gods 
when they saw the god of fire's subtle, cunning work. 370 

One would glance at his neighbor, laughing out, 



202 homer: the odyssey 

"A bad day for adultery! Slow outstrips the Swift. 

"Look how limping Hephaestus conquers War, 
quickest of all the gods who rule Olympus!" 



[329-57] 



"The adulterer, 



"The cripple wins by craft." 

he will pay the price!" 

So the gods would banter 
among themselves but lord Apollo goaded Hermes on: 
"Tell me, Quicksilver, giver of all good things — 
even with those unwieldy shackles wrapped around you, 
how would you like to bed the golden Aphrodite?" 

"Oh Apollo, if only!" the giant-killer cried. 
"Archer, bind me down with triple those endless chains! 
Let all you gods look on, and all you goddesses too — 
how I'd love to bed that golden Aphrodite!" 

A peal of laughter broke from the deathless ones 
but not Poseidon, not a smile from him; he kept on 
begging the famous Smith to loose the god of war, 
pleading, his words flying, "Let him go! 
I guarantee you Ares will pay the price, 
whatever you ask, Hephaestus, 
whatever's right in the eyes of all the gods." 

But the famous crippled Smith appealed in turn, 
"God of the earthquake, please don't urge this on me. 
A pledge for a worthless man is a worthless pledge indeed. 
What if he slips out of his chains — his debts as well? 
How could I shackle you while all the gods look on?" 

But the god of earthquakes reassured the Smith, 
"Look, Hephaestus, if Ares scuttles off and away, 
squirming out of his debt, I'll pay the fine myself." 

And the famous crippled Smith complied at last: 



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[358-89] BOOK 8: A DAY FOR SONGS AND CONTESTS 203 

"Now there's an offer I really can't refuse!" 



With all his force the god of fire loosed the chains 
and the two lovers, free of the bonds that overwhelmed them so, 
sprang up and away at once, and the Wargod sped to Thrace 
while Love with her telltale laughter sped to Paphos, 
Cyprus Isle, where her grove and scented altar stand. 
There the Graces bathed and anointed her with oil, 
ambrosial oil, the bloom that clings to the gods 
who never die, and swathed her round in gowns 
to stop the heart ... an ecstasy — a vision. 

That was the song the famous harper sang 
and Odysseus relished every note as the islanders, 
the lords of the long oars and master mariners rejoiced. 

Next the king asked Halius and Laodamas to dance, 
the two alone, since none could match that pair. 
So taking in hand a gleaming sea-blue ball, 
made by the craftsman Polybus — arching back, 
one prince would hurl it toward the shadowy clouds 
as the other leaping high into the air would catch it 
quickly, nimbly, before his feet hit ground again. 
Once they'd vied at throwing the ball straight up, 
they tossed it back and forth in a blur of hands 
as they danced across the earth that feeds us all, 
while boys around the ring stamped out the beat 
and a splendid rhythmic drumming sound arose, 
and good Odysseus looked at his host, exclaiming, 
"King Alcinous, shining among your island people, 
you boasted Phaeacia's dancers are the best — 
they prove your point — I watch and I'm amazed!" 



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400 



His praises cheered the hallowed island king 430 

who spoke at once to the master mariners around him: 
"Hear me, my lords and captains of Phaeacia, 
our guest is a man of real taste, I'd say. Come, 
let's give him the parting gifts a guest deserves. 



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[420-50] 



BOOK 8: A DAY FOR SONGS AND CONTESTS 



There are twelve peers of the realm who rule our land, 
thirteen, counting myself. Let each of us contribute 
a fresh cloak and shirt and a bar of precious gold. 
Gather the gifts together, hurry, so our guest 
can have them all in hand when he goes to dine, 
his spirit filled with joy. 
As for Broadsea, let him make amends, 
man-to-man, with his words as well as gifts. 
His first remarks were hardly fit to hear." 

All assented and gave their own commands, 
each noble sent a page to fetch his gifts. 
And Broadsea volunteered in turn, obliging: 
"Great Alcinous, shining among our island people, 
of course I'll make amends to our newfound friend 
as you request. I'll give the man this sword. 
It's solid bronze and the hilt has silver studs, 
the sheath around it ivory freshly carved. 
Here's a gift our guest will value highly." 

He placed the silver-studded sword in Odysseus' hands 
with a burst of warm words: "Farewell, stranger, sir — 
if any remark of mine gave you offense, 
may stormwinds snatch it up and sweep it off! 
May the gods grant you safe passage home to see your wife — 
you've been so far from loved ones, suffered so!" 

Tactful Odysseus answered him in kind: 
"And a warm farewell to you, too, my friend. 
May the gods grant you good fortune — 
may you never miss this sword, this gift you give 
with such salutes. You've made amends in full." 

With that 
he slung the silver-studded sword across his shoulder. 
As the sun sank, his glittering gifts arrived 
and proud heralds bore them into the hall 
where sons of King Alcinous took them over, 
spread them out before their noble mother's feet — 



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460 



a grand array of gifts. The king in all his majesty 
led the rest of his peers inside, following in a file 
and down they sat on rows of high-backed chairs. 
The king turned to the queen and urged her, "Come, 
my dear, bring in an elegant chest, the best you have, 
and lay inside it a fresh cloak and shirt, your own gifts. 
Then heat a bronze cauldron over the fire, boil water, 
so once our guest has bathed and reviewed his gifts — 
all neatly stacked for sailing, 

gifts our Phaeacian lords have brought him now — 
he'll feast in peace and hear the harper's songs. 
And I will give him this gorgeous golden cup of mine, 
so he'll remember Alcinous all his days to come 
when he pours libations out in his own house 
to Father Zeus and the other gods on high." 

And at that Arete told her serving-women, 
"Set a great three-legged cauldron over the fire — 
do it right away!" 

And hoisting over the blaze 
a cauldron, filling it brimful with bathing water, 
they piled fresh logs beneath and lit them quickly. 
The fire lapped at the vessel's belly, the water warmed. 
Meanwhile the queen had a polished chest brought forth 
from an inner room and laid the priceless gifts inside, 
the clothes and gold the Phaeacian lords had brought, 
and added her own gifts, a cloak and a fine shirt, 
and gave her guest instructions quick and clear: 
"Now look to the lid yourself and bind it fast 
with a good tight knot, so no one can rob you 
on your voyage — drifting into a sweet sleep 
as the black ship sails you home." 

Hearing that, 
the storm-tossed man secured the lid straightway, 
he battened it fast with a swift, intricate knot 
the lady Circe had taught him long ago. 
And the housekeeper invited him at once 
to climb into a waiting tub and bathe — 



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BOOK 81 A DAY FOR SONGS AND CONTESTS 



a hot, steaming bath . . . 

what a welcome sight to Odysseus' eyes! 

He'd been a stranger to comforts such as these 

since he left the lovely-haired Calypso's house, 

yet all those years he enjoyed such comforts there, 

never-ending, as if he were a god . . . And now, 

when maids had washed him, rubbed him down with oil 

and drawn warm fleece and a shirt around his shoulders, 

he stepped from the bath to join the nobles at their wine. 

And there stood Nausicaa as he passed. Beside a column 

that propped the sturdy roof she paused, endowed 

by the gods with all her beauty, gazing at 

Odysseus right before her eyes. Wonderstruck, 

she hailed her guest with a winning flight of words: 

"Farewell, my friend! And when you are at home, 

home in your own land, remember me at times. 

Mainly to me you owe the gift of life." 

Odysseus rose to the moment deftly, gently: 
"Nausicaa, daughter of generous King Alcinous, 
may Zeus the Thunderer, Hera's husband, grant it so— 
that I travel home and see the dawn of my return. 
Even at home I'll pray to you as a deathless goddess 
all my days to come. You saved my life, dear girl." 

And he went and took his seat beside the king. 
By now they were serving out the portions, mixing wine, 
and the herald soon approached, leading the faithful bard 
Demodocus, prized by all the people — seated him in a chair 
amid the feasters, leaning it against a central column. 
At once alert Odysseus carved a strip of loin, 
rich and crisp with fat, from the white-tusked boar 
that still had much meat left, and called the herald over: 
"Here, herald, take this choice cut to Demodocus 
so he can eat his fill — with warm regards 
from a man who knows what suffering is . . . 
From all who walk the earth our bards deserve 



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520 



530 



esteem and awe, for the Muse herself has taught them 
paths of song. She loves the breed of harpers." 

The herald placed the gift in Demodocus' hands 
and the famous blind bard received it, overjoyed. 
They reached for the good things that lay outspread 
and when they'd put aside desire for food and drink, 
Odysseus, master of many exploits, praised the singer: 
"I respect you, Demodocus, more than any man alive — 
surely the Muse has taught you, Zeus's daughter, 
or god Apollo himself. How true to life, 
all too true . . . you sing the Achaeans' fate, 
all they did and suffered, all they soldiered through, 
as if you were there yourself or heard from one who was. 
But come now, shift your ground. Sing of the wooden horse 
Epeus built with Athena's help, the cunning trap that 
good Odysseus brought one day to the heights of Troy, 
filled with fighting men who laid the city waste. 
Sing that for me— true to life as it deserves— 
and I will tell the world at once how freely 
the Muse gave you the gods' own gift of song." 

Stirred now by the Muse, the bard launched out 
in a fine blaze of song, starting at just the point 
where the main Achaean force, setting their camps afire, 
had boarded the oarswept ships and sailed for home 
but famed Odysseus' men already crouched in hiding — 
in the heart of Troy's assembly — dark in that horse 
the Trojans dragged themselves to the city heights. 
Now it stood there, looming . . . 
and round its bulk the Trojans sat debating, 
clashing, days on end. Three plans split their ranks: 
either to hack open the hollow vault with ruthless bronze 
or haul it up to the highest ridge and pitch it down the cliffs 
or let it stand — a glorious offering made to pacify the gods — 
and that, that final plan, was bound to win the day. 
For Troy was fated to perish once the city lodged 



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550 



560 



570 



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homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[511-42] 



inside her walls the monstrous wooden horse 

where the prime of Argive power lay in wait 

with death and slaughter bearing down on Troy. 

And he sang how troops of Achaeans broke from cover, 

streaming out of the horse's hollow flanks to plunder Troy — 

he sang how left and right they ravaged the steep city, 

sang how Odysseus marched right up to Deiphobus' house 580 

like the god of war on attack with diehard Menelaus. 

There, he sang, Odysseus fought the grimmest fight 

he had ever braved but he won through at last, 

thanks to Athena's superhuman power. 

That was the song the famous harper sang 
but great Odysseus melted into tears, 
running down from his eyes to wet his cheeks . . . 
as a woman weeps, her arms flung round her darling husband, 
a man who fell in battle, fighting for town and townsmen, 
trying to beat the day of doom from home and children. 590 

Seeing the man go down, dying, gasping for breath, 
she clings for dear life, screams and shrills — 
but the victors, just behind her, 
digging spear-butts into her back and shoulders, 
drag her off in bondage, yoked to hard labor, pain, 
and the most heartbreaking torment wastes her cheeks. 
So from Odysseus' eyes ran tears of heartbreak now. 
But his weeping went unmarked by all the others; 
only Alcinous, sitting close beside him, 

noticed his guest's tears, 600 

heard the groan in the man's labored breathing 
and said at once to the master mariners around him, 
"Hear me, my lords and captains of Phaeacia! 
Let Demodocus rest his ringing lyre now — 
this song he sings can hardly please us all. 
Ever since our meal began and the stirring bard 
launched his song, our guest has never paused 
in his tears and throbbing sorrow. 
Clearly grief has overpowered his heart. 
Break off this song! Let us all enjoy ourselves, 610 



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209 



the hosts and guest together. Much the warmer way. 

All these things are performed for him, our honored guest, 

the royal send-off here and gifts we give in love. 

Treat your guest and suppliant like a brother: 

anyone with a touch of sense knows that. 

So don't be crafty now, my friend, don't hide 

the truth I'm after. Fair is fair, speak out! 

Come, tell us the name they call you there at home — 

your mother, father, townsmen, neighbors round about. 

Surely no man in the world is nameless, all told. 

Born high, born low, as soon as he sees the light 

his parents always name him, once he's born. 

And tell me your land, your people, your city too, 

so our ships can sail you home — their wits will speed them there. 

For we have no steersmen here among Phaeacia's crews 

or steering-oars that guide your common craft. 

Our ships know in a flash their mates' intentions, 

know all ports of call and all the rich green fields. 

With wings of the wind they cross the sea's huge gulfs, 

shrouded in mist and cloud — no fear in the world of foundering, 

fatal shipwreck. 

True, there's an old tale I heard 
my father telling once. Nausithous used to say 
that lord Poseidon was vexed with us because 
we escorted all mankind and never came to grief. 
He said that one day, as a well-built ship of ours 
sailed home on the misty sea from such a convoy, 
the god would crush it, yes, 
and pile a huge mountain round about our port. 
So the old king foretold . . . And as for the god, well, 
he can do his worst or leave it quite undone, 
whatever warms his heart. 

But come, my friend, 
tell us your own story now, and tell it truly. 
Where have your rovings forced you? 
What lands of men have you seen, what sturdy towns, 
what men themselves? Who were wild, savage, lawless? 
Who were friendly to strangers, god-fearing men? Tell me, 



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640 



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[577-861 



why do you weep and grieve so sorely when you hear 

the late ol the Argives, hear the fall ol Troy? 

That is the gods' work, spinning threads of death 

through the lives of mortal men, 

and all to make a song for those to come . . . 

Did one of your kinsmen die belore the walls of Troy, 

some brave man — a son by marriage? father by marriage? 

Next to our own blood kin, our nearest, dearest ties. 

Or a Iriend perhaps, someone close to your heart, 

staunch and loyal? No less dear than a brother, 

the brother-in-arms who shares our inmost thoughts." 



650 



BOOK NINE 




In the One -Eyed 
Giant's Cave 



o< 



'dysseus, the great teller of tales, launched out on his story: 
"Alcinous, majesty, shining among your island people, 
what a fine thing it is to listen to such a bard 
as we have here — the man sings like a god. 
The crown of life, I'd say. There's nothing better 
than when deep joy holds sway throughout the realm 
and banqueters up and down the palace sit in ranks, 
enthralled to hear the bard, and before them all, the tables 
heaped with bread and meats, and drawing wine from a mixing-bowl 
the steward makes his rounds and keeps the winecups flowing. 10 

This, to my mind, is the best that life can offer. 

But now 
you're set on probing the bitter pains I've borne, 
so I'm to weep and grieve, it seems, still more. 
Well then, what shall I go through first, 



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[43-75] 



BOOK 9: IN THE ONE-EYED GIANT S CAVE 



213 



what shall I save for last? 

What pains — the gods have given me my share. 

Now let me begin by telling you my name . . . 

so you may know it well and I in times to come, 

if I can escape the fatal day, will be your host, 

your sworn friend, though my home is far from here. 

I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, known to the world 

for every kind of craft — my fame has reached the skies. 

Sunny Ithaca is my home. Atop her stands our seamark, 

Mount Neriton's leafy ridges shimmering in the wind. 

Around her a ring of islands circle side-by-side, 

Dulichion, Same, wooded Zacynthus too, but mine 

lies low and away, the farthest out to sea, 

rearing into the western dusk 

while the others face the east and breaking day. 

Mine is a rugged land but good for raising sons — 

and I myself, I know no sweeter sight on earth 

than a man's own native country. 

True enough, 
Calypso the lustrous goddess tried to hold me back, 
deep in her arching caverns, craving me for a husband. 
So did Circe, holding me just as warmly in her halls, 
the bewitching queen of Aeaea keen to have me too. 
But they never won the heart inside me, never. 
So nothing is as sweet as a man's own country, 
his own parents, even though he's settled down 
in some luxurious house, off in a foreign land 
and far from those who bore him. 

No more. Come, 
let me tell you about the voyage fraught with hardship 
Zeus inflicted on me, homeward bound from Troy . . . 

The wind drove me out of Ilium on to Ismarus, 
the Cicones' stronghold. There I sacked the city, 
killed the men, but as for the wives and plunder, 
that rich haul we dragged away from the place — 
we shared it round so no one, not on my account, 
would go deprived of his fair share of spoils. 



20 



30 



40 



Then I urged them to cut and run, set sail, so 

but would they listen? Not those mutinous fools; 

there was too much wine to swill, too many sheep to slaughter 

down along the beach, and shambling longhorn cattle. 

And all the while the Cicones sought out other Cicones, 

called for help from their neighbors living inland: 

a larger force, and stronger soldiers too, 

skilled hands at fighting men from chariots, 

skilled, when a crisis broke, to fight on foot. 

Out of the morning mist they came against us — 

packed as the leaves and spears that flower forth in spring — 60 

and Zeus presented us with disaster, me and my comrades 

doomed to suffer blow on mortal blow. Lining up, 

both armies battled it out against our swift ships, 

both raked each other with hurtling bronze lances. 

Long as morning rose and the blessed day grew stronger 

we stood and fought them off, massed as they were, but then, 

when the sun wheeled past the hour for unyoking oxen, 

the Cicones broke our lines and beat us down at last. 

Out of each ship, six men-at-arms were killed; 

the rest of us rowed away from certain doom. 70 

From there we sailed on, glad to escape our death 
yet sick at heart for the dear companions we had lost. 
But I would not let our rolling ships set sail until the crews 
had raised the triple cry, saluting each poor comrade 
cut down by the fierce Cicones on that plain. 
Now Zeus who masses the stormclouds hit the fleet 
with the North Wind — 

a howling, demonic gale, shrouding over 
in thunderheads the earth and sea at once — 

and night swept down 
from the sky and the ships went plunging headlong on, 
our sails slashed to rags by the hurricane's blast! so 

We struck them — cringing at death we rowed our ships 
to the nearest shoreline, pulled with all our power. 
There, for two nights, two days, we lay by, no letup, 
eating our hearts out, bent with pain and bone-tired. 



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[76-107] 



[107-tl] 



BOOK 9: IN THE ONE-EYED GIANT'S CAVE 



215 



When Dawn with her lovely locks brought on the third day, 
then stepping the masts and hoisting white sails high, 
we lounged at the oarlocks, letting wind and helmsmen 
keep us true on course . . . 

And now, at long last, 
I might have reached my native land unscathed, 
but just as I doubled Malea's cape, a tide-rip 
and the North Wind drove me way off course, 
careering past Cythera. 

Nine whole days 
I was borne along by rough, deadly winds 
on the fish-infested sea. Then on the tenth 
our squadron reached the land of the Lotus-eaters, 
people who eat the lotus, mellow fruit and flower. 
We disembarked on the coast, drew water there 
and crewmen snatched a meal by the swift ships. 
Once we'd had our fill of food and drink I sent 
a detail ahead, two picked men and a third, a runner, 
to scout out who might live there — men like us perhaps, 
who live on bread? So off they went and soon enough 
they mingled among the natives, Lotus-eaters, Lotus-eaters 
who had no notion of killing my companions, not at all, 
they simply gave them the lotus to taste instead . . . 
Any crewmen who ate the lotus, the honey-sweet fruit, 
lost all desire to send a message back, much less return, 
their only wish to linger there with the Lotus-eaters, 
grazing on lotus, all memory of the journey home 
dissolved forever. But I brought them back, back 
to the hollow ships, and streaming tears — I forced them, 
hauled them under the rowing benches, lashed them fast 
and shouted out commands to my other, steady comrades: 
'Quick, no time to lose, embark in the racing ships!' — 
so none could eat the lotus, forget the voyage home. 
They swung aboard at once, they sat to the oars in ranks 
and in rhythm churned the water white with stroke on stroke. 

From there we sailed on, our spirits now at a low ebb, 
and reached the land of the high and mighty Cyclops, 



90 



100 



110 



lawless brutes, who trust so to the everlasting gods 
they never plant with their own hands or plow the soil. 
Unsown, unplowed, the earth teems with all they need, 
wheat, barley and vines, swelled by the rains of Zeus 
to yield a big full-bodied wine from clustered grapes. 
They have no meeting place for council, no laws either, 
no, up on the mountain peaks they live in arching caverns- 
each a law to himself, ruling his wives and children, 
not a care in the world for any neighbor. 

Now, 
a level island stretches flat across the harbor, 
not close inshore to the Cyclops' coast, not too far out, 
thick with woods where the wild goats breed by hundreds. 
No trampling of men to start them from their lairs, 
no hunters roughing it out on the woody ridges, 
stalking quarry, ever raid their haven. 
No flocks browse, no plowlands roll with wheat; 
unplowed, unsown forever — empty of humankind — 
the island just feeds droves of bleating goats. 
For the Cyclops have no ships with crimson prows, 
no shipwrights there to build them good trim craft 
that could sail them out to foreign ports of call 
as most men risk the seas to trade with other men. 
Such artisans would have made this island too 
a decent place to live in ... No mean spot, 
it could bear you any crop you like in season. 
The water-meadows along the low foaming shore 
run soft and moist, and your vines would never flag. 
The land's clear for plowing. Harvest on harvest, 
a man could reap a healthy stand of grain — 
the subsoil's dark and rich. 

There's a snug deep-water harbor there, what's more, 
no need for mooring-gear, no anchor-stones to heave, 
no cables to make fast. Just beach your keels, ride out 
the days till your shipmates' spirit stirs for open sea 
and a fair wind blows. And last, at the harbor's head 
there's a spring that rushes fresh from beneath a cave 
and black poplars flourish round its mouth. 



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[142-72] 



Well, 
here we landed, and surely a god steered us in 
through the pitch-black night. 
Not that he ever showed himself, with thick fog 
swirling around the ships, the moon wrapped in clouds 
and not a glimmer stealing through that gloom. 
Not one of us glimpsed the island — scanning hard — 
or the long combers rolling us slowly toward the coast, 
not till our ships had run their keels ashore. 
Beaching our vessels smoothly, striking sail, 
the crews swung out on the low shelving sand 
and there we fell asleep, awaiting Dawn's first light. 



160 



When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 
we all turned out, intrigued to tour the island. 

The local nymphs, the daughters of Zeus himself, 170 

flushed mountain-goats so the crews could make their meal. 
Quickly we fetched our curved bows and hunting spears 
from the ships and, splitting up into three bands, 
we started shooting, and soon enough some god 
had sent us bags of game to warm our hearts. 
A dozen vessels sailed in my command 
and to each crew nine goats were shared out 
and mine alone took ten. Then all day long 
till the sun went down we sat and feasted well 

on sides of meat and rounds of heady wine. iso 

The good red stock in our vessels' holds 
had not run out, there was still plenty left; 
the men had carried off a generous store in jars 
when we stormed and sacked the Cicones' holy city. 
Now we stared across at the Cyclops' shore, so near 
we could even see their smoke, hear their voices, 
their bleating sheep and goats . . . 
And then when the sun had set and night came on 
we lay down and slept at the water's shelving edge. 
When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 190 

I called a muster briskly, commanding all the hands, 
'The rest of you stay here, my friends-in-arms. 



[173-205] 



BOOK 9: IN THE ONE-EYED GIANT'S CAVE 



217 



I'll go across with my own ship and crew 
and probe the natives living over there. 
What are they — violent, savage, lawless? 
or friendly to strangers, god-fearing men?' 

With that I boarded ship and told the crew 
to embark at once and cast off cables quickly. 
They swung aboard, they sat to the oars in ranks 

and in rhythm churned the water white with stroke on stroke. 200 

But as soon as we reached the coast I mentioned— no long trip— 
we spied a cavern just at the shore, gaping above the surf, 
towering, overgrown with laurel. And here big flocks, 
sheep and goats, were stalled to spend the nights, 
and around its mouth a yard was walled up 
with quarried boulders sunk deep in the earth 
and enormous pines and oak-trees looming darkly . . . 
Here was a giant's lair, in fact, who always pastured 
his sheepflocks far afield and never mixed with others. 
A grim loner, dead set in his own lawless ways. 210 

Here was a piece of work, by god, a monster 
built like no mortal who ever supped on bread, 
no, like a shaggy peak, I'd say— a man-mountain 
rearing head and shoulders over the world. 

Now then, 
I told most of my good trusty crew to wait, 
to sit tight by the ship and guard her well 
while I picked out my dozen finest fighters 
and off I went. But I took a skin of wine along, 
the ruddy, irresistible wine that Maron gave me once, 
Euanthes' son, a priest of Apollo, lord of Ismarus, 220 

because we'd rescued him, his wife and children, 
reverent as we were; 
he lived, you see, in Apollo's holy grove. 
And so in return he gave me splendid gifts, 
he handed me seven bars of well-wrought gold, 
a mixing-bowl of solid silver, then this wine 
He drew it off in generous wine-jars, twelve in all, 
all unmixed— and such a bouquet, a drink fit for the gods! 



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[234-67] 



BOOK 9: IN THE ONE-EYED GIANT'S CAVE 



219 



No maid or man of his household knew that secret store, 
only himself, his loving wife and a single servant. 
Whenever they'd drink the deep-red mellow vintage, 
twenty cups of water he'd stir in one of wine 
and what an aroma wafted from the bowl — 
what magic, what a godsend — 
no joy in holding back when that was poured! 
Filling a great goatskin now, I took this wine, 
provisions too in a leather sack. A sudden foreboding 
told my fighting spirit I'd soon come up against 
some giant clad in power like armor-plate — 
a savage deaf to justice, blind to law. 

Our party quickly made its way to his cave 
but we failed to find our host himself inside; 
he was off in his pasture, ranging his sleek flocks. 
So we explored his den, gazing wide-eyed at it all, 
the large flat racks loaded with drying cheeses, 
the folds crowded with young lambs and kids, 
split into three groups — here the spring-born, 
here mid-yearlings, here the fresh sucklings 
off to the side — each sort was penned apart. 
And all his vessels, pails and hammered buckets 
he used for milking, were brimming full with whey. 
From the start my comrades pressed me, pleading hard, 
'Let's make away with the cheeses, then come back — 
hurry, drive the lambs and kids from the pens 
to our swift ship, put out to sea at once!' 
But I would not give way — 
and how much better it would have been — 
not till I saw him, saw what gifts he'd give. 
But he proved no lovely sight to my companions. 

There we built a fire, set our hands on the cheeses, 
offered some to the gods and ate the bulk ourselves 
and settled down inside, awaiting his return . . . 
And back he came from pasture, late in the day, 
herding his flocks home, and lugging a huge load 



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260 



of good dry logs to fuel his fire at supper. 

He flung them down in the cave — a jolting crash — 

we scuttled in panic into the deepest dark recess. 

And next he drove his sleek flocks into the open vault, 

all he'd milk at least, but he left the males outside, 

rams and billy goats out in the high-walled yard. 270 

Then to close his door he hoisted overhead 

a tremendous, massive slab — 

no twenty-two wagons, rugged and four-wheeled, 

could budge that boulder off the ground, I tell you, 

such an immense stone the monster wedged to block his cave! 

Then down he squatted to milk his sheep and bleating goats, 

each in order, and put a suckling underneath each dam. 

And half of the fresh white milk he curdled quickly, 

set it aside in wicker racks to press for cheese, 

the other half let stand in pails and buckets, 280 

ready at hand to wash his supper down. 

As soon as he'd briskly finished all his chores 

he lit his fire and spied us in the blaze and 

'Strangers!' he thundered out, 'now who are you? 

Where did you sail from, over the running sea-lanes? 

Out on a trading spree or roving the waves like pirates, 

sea-wolves raiding at will, who risk their lives 

to plunder other men?' 

The hearts inside us shook, 
terrified by his rumbling voice and monstrous hulk. 
Nevertheless I found the nerve to answer, firmly, 290 

'Men of Achaea we are and bound now from Troy! 
Driven far off course by the warring winds, 
over the vast gulf of the sea — battling home 
on a strange tack, a route that's off the map, 
and so we've come to you . . . 
so it must please King Zeus's plotting heart. 
We're glad to say we're men of Atrides Agamemnon, 
whose fame is the proudest thing on earth these days, 
so great a city he sacked, such multitudes he killed! 

But since we've chanced on you, we're at your knees 300 

in hopes of a warm welcome, even a guest-gift, 



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the sort that hosts give strangers. That's the custom. 
Respect the gods, my friend. We're suppliants — at your mercy! 
Zeus of the Strangers guards all guests and suppliants: 
strangers are sacred — Zeus will avenge their rights!' 

'Stranger,' he grumbled back from his brutal heart, 
'you must be a fool, stranger, or come from nowhere, 
telling me to fear the gods or avoid their wrath! 
We Cyclops never blink at Zeus and Zeus's shield 

of storm and thunder, or any other blessed god — 310 

we've got more force by far. 
I'd never spare you in fear of Zeus's hatred, 
you or your comrades here, unless I had the urge. 
But tell me, where did you moor your sturdy ship 
when you arrived? Up the coast or close in? 
I'd just like to know.' 

So he laid his trap 
but he never caught me, no, wise to the world 
I shot back in my crafty way, 'My ship? 
Poseidon god of the earthquake smashed my ship, 

he drove it against the rocks at your island's far cape, 320 

dashed it against a cliff as the winds rode us in. 
I and the men you see escaped a sudden death.' 

Not a word in reply to that, the ruthless brute. 
Lurching up, he lunged out with his hands toward my men 
and snatching two at once, rapping them on the ground 
he knocked them dead like pups — 
their brains gushed out all over, soaked the floor — 
and ripping them limb from limb to fix his meal 
he bolted them down like a mountain-lion, left no scrap, 
devoured entrails, flesh and bones, marrow and all! 330 

We flung our arms to Zeus, we wept and cried aloud, 
looking on at his grisly work — paralyzed, appalled. 
But once the Cyclops had stuffed his enormous gut 
with human flesh, washing it down with raw milk, 
he slept in his cave, stretched out along his flocks. 
And I with my fighting heart, I thought at first 



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to steal up to him, draw the sharp sword at my hip 

and stab his chest where the midriff packs the liver — 

I groped for the fatal spot but a fresh thought held me back. 

There at a stroke we'd finish off ourselves as well — 340 

how could we with our bare hands heave back 

that slab he set to block his cavern's gaping maw? 

So we lay there groaning, waiting Dawn's first light. 

When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 
the monster relit his fire and milked his handsome ewes, 
each in order, putting a suckling underneath each dam, 
and as soon as he'd briskly finished all his chores 
he snatched up two more men and fixed his meal. 
Well-fed, he drove his fat sheep from the cave, 

lightly lifting the huge doorslab up and away, 350 

then slipped it back in place 
as a hunter flips the lid of his quiver shut. 
Piercing whistles — turning his flocks to the hills 
he left me there, the heart inside me brooding on revenge: 
how could I pay him back? would Athena give me glory? 
Here was the plan that struck my mind as best . . . 
the Cyclops' great club: there it lay by the pens, 
olivewood, full of sap. He'd lopped it off to brandish 
once it dried. Looking it over, we judged it big enough 
to be the mast of a pitch-black ship with her twenty oars, 360 

a freighter broad in the beam that plows through miles of sea — 
so long, so thick it bulked before our eyes. Well, 
flanking it now, I chopped off a fathom's length, 
pushed it to comrades, told them to plane it down, 
and they made the club smooth as I bent and shaved 
the tip to a stabbing point. I turned it over 
the blazing fire to char it good and hard, 
then hid it well, buried deep under the dung 
that littered the cavern's floor in thick wet clumps. 

And now I ordered my shipmates all to cast lots — 370 

who'd brave it out with me 
to hoist our stake and grind it into his eye 
when sleep had overcome him? Luck of the draw: 



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I got the very ones I would have picked myself, 
four good men, and I in the lead made five . . . 

Nightfall brought him back, herding his woolly sheep 
and he quickly drove the sleek flock into the vaulted cavern, 
rams and all — none left outside in the walled yard — 
his own idea, perhaps, or a god led him on. 
Then he hoisted the huge slab to block the door 
and squatted to milk his sheep and bleating goats, 
each in order, putting a suckling underneath each dam, 
and as soon as he'd briskly finished all his chores 
he snatched up two more men and fixed his meal. 
But this time I lifted a carved wooden bowl, 
brimful of my ruddy wine, 
and went right up to the Cyclops, enticing, 
'Here, Cyclops, try this wine — to top off 
the banquet of human flesh you've bolted down! 
Judge for yourself what stock our ship had stored. 
I brought it here to make you a fine libation, 
hoping you would pity me, Cyclops, send me home, 
but your rages are insufferable. You barbarian — 
how can any man on earth come visit you after this? 
What you've done outrages all that's right!' 

At that he seized the bowl and tossed it off 
and the heady wine pleased him immensely. 'More' — 
he demanded a second bowl — 'a hearty helping! 
And tell me your name now, quickly, 
so I can hand my guest a gift to warm his heart. 
Our soil yields the Cyclops powerful, full-bodied wine 
and the rains from Zeus build its strength. But this, 
this is nectar, ambrosia — this flows from heaven!' 

So he declared. I poured him another fiery bowl — 
three bowls I brimmed and three he drank to the last drop, 
the fool, and then, when the wine was swirling round his brain, 
I approached my host with a cordial, winning word: 
'So, you ask me the name I'm known by, Cyclops? 



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I will tell you. But you must give me a guest-gift 

as you've promised. Nobody — that's my name. Nobody — 

so my mother and father call me, all my friends.' 

But he boomed back at me from his ruthless heart, 
'Nobody? I'll eat Nobody last of all his friends — 
I'll eat the others first! That's my gift to you!' 

With that 
he toppled over, sprawled full-length, flat on his back 
and lay there, his massive neck slumping to one side, 
and sleep that conquers all overwhelmed him now 
as wine came spurting, flooding up from his gullet 
with chunks of human flesh — he vomited, blind drunk. 
Now, at last, I thrust our stake in a bed of embers 
to get it red-hot and rallied all my comrades: 
'Courage — no panic, no one hang back now!' 
And green as it was, just as the olive stake 
was about to catch fire — the glow terrific, yes — 
I dragged it from the flames, my men clustering round 
as some god breathed enormous courage through us all. 
Hoisting high that olive stake with its stabbing point, 
straight into the monster's eye they rammed it hard — 
I drove my weight on it from above and bored it home 
as a shipwright bores his beam with a shipwright's drill 
that men below, whipping the strap back and forth, whirl 
and the drill keeps twisting faster, never stopping — 
So we seized our stake with its fiery tip 
and bored it round and round in the giant's eye 
till blood came boiling up around that smoking shaft 
and the hot blast singed his brow and eyelids round the core 
and the broiling eyeball burst — 

its crackling roots blazed 
and hissed — 

as a blacksmith plunges a glowing ax or adze 
in an ice-cold bath and the metal screeches steam 
and its temper hardens — that's the iron's strength — 
so the eye of the Cyclops sizzled round that stake! 
He loosed a hideous roar, the rock walls echoed round 



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and we scuttled back in terror. The monster wrenched the spike 
from his eye and out it came with a red geyser of blood — 
he flung it aside with frantic hands, and mad with pain 
he bellowed out for help from his neighbor Cyclops 
living round about in caves on windswept crags. 
Hearing his cries, they lumbered up from every side 
and hulking round his cavern, asked what ailed him: 
'What, Polyphemus, what in the world's the trouble? 
Roaring out in the godsent night to rob us of our sleep. 
Surely no one's rustling your flocks against your will — 
surely no one's trying to kill you now by fraud or force!' 

'Nobody, friends' — Polyphemus bellowed back from his cave — 
'Nobody's killing me now by fraud and not by force!' 

'If you're alone,' his friends boomed back at once, 
'and nobody's trying to overpower you now — look, 
it must be a plague sent here by mighty Zeus 
and there's no escape from that. 
You'd better pray to your father, Lord Poseidon.' 

They lumbered off, but laughter filled my heart 
to think how nobody's name — my great cunning stroke — 
had duped them one and all. But the Cyclops there, 
still groaning, racked with agony, groped around 
for the huge slab, and heaving it from the doorway, 
down he sat in the cave's mouth, his arms spread wide, 
hoping to catch a comrade stealing out with sheep — 
such a blithering fool he took me for! 
But I was already plotting . . . 
what was the best way out? how could I find 
escape from death for my crew, myself as well? 
My wits kept weaving, weaving cunning schemes — 
life at stake, monstrous death staring us in the face — 
till this plan struck my mind as best. That flock, 
those well-fed rams with their splendid thick fleece, 
sturdy, handsome beasts sporting their dark weight of wool: 



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I lashed them abreast, quietly, twisting the willow-twigs 
the Cyclops slept on — giant, lawless brute — I took them 
three by three; each ram in the middle bore a man 
while the two rams either side would shield him well. 
So three beasts to bear each man, but as for myself? 
There was one bellwether ram, the prize of all the flock, 
and clutching him by his back, tucked up under 
his shaggy belly, there I hung, face upward, 
both hands locked in his marvelous deep fleece, 
clinging for dear life, my spirit steeled, enduring . . . 
So we held on, desperate, waiting Dawn's first light. 

As soon 
as young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 
the rams went rumbling out of the cave toward pasture, 
the ewes kept bleating round the pens, unmilked, 
their udders about to burst. Their master now, 
heaving in torment, felt the back of each animal 
halting before him here, but the idiot never sensed 
my men were trussed up under their thick fleecy ribs. 
And last of them all came my great ram now, striding out, 
weighed down with his dense wool and my deep plots. 
Stroking him gently, powerful Polyphemus murmured, 
'Dear old ram, why last of the flock to quit the cave? 
In the good old days you'd never lag behind the rest — 
you with your long marching strides, first by far 
of the flock to graze the fresh young grasses, 
first by far to reach the rippling streams, 
first to turn back home, keen for your fold 
when night comes on — but now you're last of all. 
And why? Sick at heart for your master's eye 
that coward gouged out with his wicked crew? — 
only after he'd stunned my wits with wine — 
that, that Nobody . . . 

who's not escaped his death, I swear, not yet. 
Oh if only you thought like me, had words like me 
to tell me where that scoundrel is cringing from my rage! 
I'd smash him against the ground, I'd spill his brains — 



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500 



510 



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BOOK 9: IN THE ONE-EYED GIANT S CAVE 



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flooding across my cave — and that would ease my heart 
of the pains that good-for-nothing Nobody made me suffer!' 

And with that threat he let my ram go free outside. 
But soon as we'd got one foot past cave and courtyard, 
first I loosed myself from the ram, then loosed my men, 
then quickly, glancing back again and again we drove 
our flock, good plump beasts with their long shanks, 
straight to the ship, and a welcome sight we were 
to loyal comrades — we who'd escaped our deaths — 
but for all the rest they broke down and wailed. 
I cut it short, I stopped each shipmate's cries, 
my head tossing, brows frowning, silent signals 
to hurry, tumble our fleecy herd on board, 
launch out on the open sea! 
They swung aboard, they sat to the oars in ranks 
and in rhythm churned the water white with stroke on stroke. 
But once offshore as far as a man's shout can carry, 
I called back to the Cyclops, stinging taunts: 
'So, Cyclops, no weak coward it was whose crew 
you bent to devour there in your vaulted cave — 
you with your brute force! Your filthy crimes 
came down on your own head, you shameless cannibal, 
daring to eat your guests in your own house — 
so Zeus and the other gods have paid you back!' 

That made the rage of the monster boil over. 
Ripping off the peak of a towering crag, he heaved it 
so hard the boulder landed just in front of our dark prow 
and a huge swell reared up as the rock went plunging under — 
a tidal wave from the open sea. The sudden backwash 
drove us landward again, forcing us close inshore 
but grabbing a long pole, I thrust us off and away, 
tossing my head for dear life, signaling crews 
to put their backs in the oars, escape grim death. 
They threw themselves in the labor, rowed on fast 
but once we'd plowed the breakers twice as far, 
again I began to taunt the Cyclops — men around me 



520 



530 



540 



trying to check me, calm me, left and right: 

'So headstrong — why? Why rile the beast again?' 550 

'That rock he flung in the sea just now, hurling our ship 
to shore once more — we thought we'd die on the spot!' 

'If he'd caught a sound from one of us, just a whisper, 
he would have crushed our heads and ship timbers 
with one heave of another flashing, jagged rock!' 

'Good god, the brute can throw!' 

So they begged 
but they could not bring my fighting spirit round. 
I called back with another burst of anger, 'Cyclops — 
if any man on the face of the earth should ask you 
who blinded you, shamed you so — say Odysseus, 560 

raider of cities, he gouged out your eye, 
Laertes' son who makes his home in Ithaca!' 

So I vaunted and he groaned back in answer, 
'Oh no, no — that prophecy years ago . . . 
it all comes home to me with a vengeance now! 
We once had a prophet here, a great tall man, 
Telemus, Burymus' son, a master at reading signs, 
who grew old in his trade among his fellow-Cyclops. 
All this, he warned me, would come to pass someday — 
that I'd be blinded here at the hands of one Odysseus. 570 

But I always looked for a handsome giant man to cross my path, 
some fighter clad in power like armor-plate, but now, 
look what a dwarf, a spineless good-for-nothing, 
stuns me with wine, then gouges out my eye! 
Come here, Odysseus, let me give you a guest-gift 
and urge Poseidon the earthquake god to speed you home. 
I am his son and he claims to be my father, true, 
and he himself will heal me if he pleases — 
no other blessed god, no man can do the work!' 

'Heal you!' — 
here was my parting shot — 'Would to god I could strip you 580 



228 



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[523-52] 



of life and breath and ship you down to the House of Death 
as surely as no one will ever heal your eye, 
not even your earthquake god himself!' 

But at that he bellowed out to lord Poseidon, 
thrusting his arms to the starry skies, and prayed, 'Hear me — 
Poseidon, god of the sea-blue mane who rocks the earth! 
If I really am your son and you claim to be my father — 
come, grant that Odysseus, raider of cities, 
Laertes' son who makes his home in Ithaca, 

never reaches home. Or if he's fated to see 590 

his people once again and reach his well-built house 
and his own native country, let him come home late 
and come a broken man — all shipmates lost, 
alone in a stranger's ship — 
and let him find a world of pain at home!' 

So he prayed 
and the god of the sea-blue mane Poseidon heard his prayer. 
The monster suddenly hoisted a boulder — far larger — 
wheeled and heaved it, putting his weight behind it, 
massive strength, and the boulder crashed close, 

landing just in the wake of our dark stern, 600 

just failing to graze the rudder's bladed edge. 
A huge swell reared up as the rock went plunging under, 
yes, and the tidal breaker drove us out to our island's 
far shore where all my well- decked ships lay moored, 
clustered, waiting, and huddled round them, crewmen 
sat in anguish, waiting, chafing for our return. 
We beached our vessel hard ashore on the sand, 
we swung out in the frothing surf ourselves, 
and herding Cyclops' sheep from our deep holds 

we shared them round so no one, not on my account, 610 

would go deprived of his fair share of spoils. 
But the splendid ram — as we meted out the flocks 
my friends-in-arms made him my prize of honor, 
mine alone, and I slaughtered him on the beach 
and burnt his thighs to Cronus' mighty son, 
Zeus of the thundercloud who rules the world. 



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But my sacrifices failed to move the god: 

Zeus was still obsessed with plans to destroy 

my entire oarswept fleet and loyal crew of comrades. 

Now all day long till the sun went down we sat 620 

and feasted on sides of meat and heady wine. 

Then when the sun had set and night came on 

we lay down and slept at the water's shelving edge. 

When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 

I roused the men straightway, ordering all crews 

to man the ships and cast off cables quickly. 

They swung aboard at once, they sat to the oars in ranks 

and in rhythm churned the water white with stroke on stroke. 

And from there we sailed on, glad to escape our death 

yet sick at heart for the comrades we had lost." 630 



BOOK TEN 




The Bewitching 
Queen of Aeaea 



// 



V Ve reached the Aeolian island next, the home of Aeolus, 
Hippotas' son, beloved by the gods who never die — 
a great floating island it was, and round it all 
huge ramparts rise of indestructible bronze 
and sheer rock cliffs shoot up from sea to sky. 
The king had sired twelve children within his halls, 
six daughters and six sons in the lusty prime of youth, 
so he gave his daughters as wives to his six sons. 
Seated beside their dear father and doting mother, 
with delicacies aplenty spread before them, 
they feast on forever ... All day long 
the halls breathe the savor of roasted meats 
and echo round to the low moan of blowing pipes, 
and all night long, each one by his faithful mate, 
they sleep under soft-piled rugs on corded bedsteads. 



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231 



To this city of theirs we came, their splendid palace, 

and Aeolus hosted me one entire month, he pressed me for news 

of Troy and the Argive ships and how we sailed for home, 

and I told him the whole long story, first to last. 

And then, when I begged him to send me on my way, 

he denied me nothing, he went about my passage. 

He gave me a sack, the skin of a full-grown ox, 

binding inside the winds that howl from every quarter, 

for Zeus had made that king the master of all the winds, 

with power to calm them down or rouse them as he pleased. 

Aeolus stowed the sack inside my holds, lashed so fast 

with a burnished silver cord 

not even a slight puff could slip past that knot. 

Yet he set the West Wind free to blow us on our way 

and waft our squadron home. But his plan was bound to fail, 

yes, our own reckless folly swept us on to ruin . . . 

Nine whole days we sailed, nine nights, nonstop. 
On the tenth our own land hove into sight at last — 
we were so close we could see men tending fires. 
But now an enticing sleep came on me, bone-weary 
from working the vessel's sheet myself, no letup, 
never trusting the ropes to any other mate, 
the faster to journey back to native land. 
But the crews began to mutter among themselves, 
sure I was hauling troves of gold and silver home, 
the gifts of open-hearted Aeolus, Hippotas' son. 
'The old story!' One man glanced at another, grumbling. 
'Look at our captain's luck — so loved by the world, 
so prized at every landfall, every port of call' 



20 



30 



40 



'Heaps of lovely plunder he hauls home from Troy, 
while we who went through slogging just as hard, 
we go home empty-handed.' 

'Now this Aeolus loads him 
down with treasure. Favoritism, friend to friend!' 



'Hurry, let's see what loot is in that sack, 



232 homer: the odyssey 

how much gold and silver. Break it open — now!' 

A fatal plan, but it won my shipmates over. 
They loosed the sack and all the winds burst out 
and a sudden squall struck and swept us back to sea, 
wailing, in tears, far from our own native land. 
And I woke up with a start, my spirit churning — 
should I leap over the side and drown at once 
or grin and bear it, stay among the living? 
I bore it all, held firm, 
hiding my face, clinging tight to the decks 
while heavy squalls blasted our squadron back 
again to Aeolus' island, shipmates groaning hard. 

We disembarked on the coast, drew water there 
and crewmen snatched a meal by the swift ships. 
Once we'd had our fill of food and drink 
I took a shipmate along with me, a herald too, 
and approached King Aeolus' famous halls and here 
we found him feasting beside his wife and many children. 
Reaching the doorposts at the threshold, down we sat 
but our hosts, amazed to see us, only shouted questions: 
'Back again, Odysseus — why? Some blustering god attacked you? 
Surely we launched you well, we sped you on your way 
to your own land and house, or any place you pleased.' 

So they taunted, and I replied in deep despair, 
'A mutinous crew undid me — that and a cruel sleep. 
Set it to rights, my friends. You have the power!' 

So I pleaded — gentle, humble appeals — 
but our hosts turned silent, hushed . . . 
and the father broke forth with an ultimatum: 
'Away from my island — fast — most cursed man alive! 
It's a crime to host a man or speed him on his way 
when the blessed deathless gods despise him so. 
Crawling back like this — 



[45-75] 



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[75-106] BOOK 10: THE BEWITCHING QUEEN OF AEAEA 

it proves the immortals hate you! Out — get out!' 

Groan as I did, his curses drove me from his halls 
and from there we pulled away with heavy hearts, 
with the crews' spirit broken under the oars' labor, 
thanks to our own folly ... no favoring wind in sight. 

Six whole days we rowed, six nights, nonstop. 
On the seventh day we raised the Laestrygonian land, 
Telepylus heights where the craggy fort of Lamus rises. 
Where shepherd calls to shepherd as one drives in his flocks 
and the other drives his out and he calls back in answer, 
where a man who never sleeps could rake in double wages, 
one for herding cattle, one for pasturing fleecy sheep, 
the nightfall and the sunrise march so close together. 
We entered a fine harbor there, all walled around 
by a great unbroken sweep of sky-scraping cliff 
and two steep headlands, fronting each other, close 
around the mouth so the passage in is cramped. 
Here the rest of my rolling squadron steered, 
right into the gaping cove and moored tightly, 
prow by prow. Never a swell there, big or small; 
a milk-white calm spreads all around the place. 
But I alone anchored my black ship outside, 
well clear of the harbor's jaws 
I tied her fast to a cliff side with a cable. 
I scaled its rock face to a lookout on its crest 
but glimpsed no trace of the work of man or beast from there- 
all I spied was a plume of smoke, drifting off the land. 
So I sent some crew ahead to learn who lived there — 
men like us perhaps, who live on bread? 
Two good mates I chose and a third to run the news. 
They disembarked and set out on a beaten trail 
the wagons used for hauling timber down to town 
from the mountain heights above . . . 
and before the walls they met a girl, drawing water, 
Antiphates' strapping daughter— king of the Laestrygonians. 



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She'd come down to a clear running spring, Artacia, 

where the local people came to fill their pails. 

My shipmates clustered round her, asking questions: 120 

who was king of the realm? who ruled the natives here? 

She waved at once to her father's high-roofed halls. 

They entered the sumptuous palace, found his wife inside — 

a woman huge as a mountain crag who filled them all with horror. 

Straightaway she summoned royal Antiphates from assembly, 

her husband, who prepared my crew a barbarous welcome. 

Snatching one of my men, he tore him up for dinner — 

the other two sprang free and reached the ships. 

But the king let loose a howling through the town 

that brought tremendous Laestrygonians swarming up 130 

from every side — hundreds, not like men, like Giants! 

Down from the cliffs they flung great rocks a man could hardly hoist 

and a ghastly shattering din rose up from all the ships — 

men in their death-cries, hulls smashed to splinters — 

They speared the crews like fish 

and whisked them home to make their grisly meal. 

But while they killed them off in the harbor depths 

I pulled the sword from beside my hip and hacked away 

at the ropes that moored my blue-prowed ship of war 

and shouted rapid orders at my shipmates: 140 

'Put your backs in the oars — now row or die!' 

In terror of death they ripped the swells — all as one — 

and what a joy as we darted out toward open sea, 

clear of those beetling cliffs . . . my ship alone. 

But the rest went down en masse. Our squadron sank. 



From there we sailed on, glad to escape our death 
yet sick at heart for the dear companions we had lost. 
We reached the Aeaean island next, the home of Circe 
the nymph with lovely braids, an awesome power too 
who can speak with human voice, 
the true sister of murderous-minded Aeetes. 
Both were bred by the Sun who lights our lives; 
their mother was Perse, a child the Ocean bore. 
We brought our ship to port without a sound 



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as a god eased her into a harbor safe and snug, 
and for two days and two nights we lay by there, 
eating our hearts out, bent with pain and bone -tired. 
When Dawn with her lovely locks brought on the third day, 
at last I took my spear and my sharp sword again, 
rushed up from the ship to find a lookout point, 
hoping to glimpse some sign of human labor, 
catch some human voices . . . 
I scaled a commanding crag and, scanning hard, 
I could just make out some smoke from Circe's halls, 
drifting up from the broad terrain through brush and woods. 
Mulling it over, I thought I'd scout the ground — 
that fire aglow in the smoke, I saw it, true, 
but soon enough this seemed the better plan: 
I'd go back to shore and the swift ship first, 
feed the men, then send them out for scouting. 
I was well on my way down, nearing our ship 
when a god took pity on me, wandering all alone; 
he sent me a big stag with high branching antlers, 
right across my path— the sun's heat forced him down 
from his forest range to drink at a river's banks- 
just bounding out of the timber when I hit him 
square in the backbone, halfway down the spine 
and my bronze spear went punching clean through- 
he dropped in the dust, groaning, gasping out his breath. 
Treading on him, I wrenched my bronze spear from the wound, 
left it there on the ground, and snapping off some twigs 
and creepers, twisted a rope about a fathom long, 
I braided it tight, hand over hand, then lashed 
the four hocks of that magnificent beast. 
Loaded round my neck I lugged him toward the ship, 
trudging, propped on my spear — no way to sling him 
over a shoulder, steadying him with one free arm — 
the kill was so immense! 

I flung him down by the hull and roused the men, 
going up to them all with a word to lift their spirits: 
'Listen to me, my comrades, brothers in hardship — 
we won't go down to the House of Death, not yet, 



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not till our day arrives. Up with you, look, 
there's still some meat and drink in our good ship. 
Put our minds on food — why die of hunger here?' 

My hardy urging brought them round at once. 
Heads came up from cloaks and there by the barren sea 
they gazed at the stag, their eyes wide — my noble trophy. 
But once they'd looked their fill and warmed their hearts, 
they washed their hands and prepared a splendid meal. 
Now all day long till the sun went down we sat 
and feasted on sides of meat and seasoned wine. 
Then when the sun had set and night came on 
we lay down and slept at the water's shelving edge. 
When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 
I called a muster quickly, informing all the crew, 
'Listen to me, my comrades, brothers in hardship, 
we can't tell east from west, the dawn from the dusk, 
nor where the sun that lights our lives goes under earth 
nor where it rises. We must think of a plan at once, 
some cunning stroke. I doubt there's one still left. 
I scaled a commanding crag and from that height 
surveyed an entire island 
ringed like a crown by endless wastes of sea. 
But the land itself lies low, and I did see smoke 
drifting up from its heart through thick brush and woods.' 

My message broke their spirit as they recalled 
the gruesome work of the Laestrygonian king Antiphates 
and the hearty cannibal Cyclops thirsting for our blood. 
They burst into cries, wailing, streaming live tears 
that gained us nothing — what good can come of grief? 

And so, numbering off my band of men-at-arms 
into two platoons, I assigned them each a leader: 
I took one and lord Eurylochus the other. 
We quickly shook lots in a bronze helmet — 
the lot of brave Eurylochus leapt out first. 
So he moved off with his two and twenty comrades, 



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weeping, leaving us behind in tears as well . . . 

Deep in the wooded glens they came on Circe's palace 

built of dressed stone on a cleared rise of land. 

Mountain wolves and lions were roaming round the grounds- 

she'd bewitched them herself, she gave them magic drugs. 

But they wouldn't attack my men; they just came pawing 

up around them, fawning, swishing their long tails — 

eager as hounds that fawn around their master, 

coming home from a feast, 

who always brings back scraps to calm them down. 

So they came nuzzling round my men — lions, wolves 

with big powerful claws — and the men cringed in fear 

at sight of those strange, ferocious beasts . . . But still 

they paused at her doors, the nymph with lovely braids, 

Circe — and deep inside they heard her singing, lifting 

her spellbinding voice as she glided back and forth 

at her great immortal loom, her enchanting web 

a shimmering glory only goddesses can weave. 

Polites, captain of armies, took command, 

the closest, most devoted man I had: 'Friends, 

there's someone inside, plying a great loom, 

and how she sings — enthralling! 

The whole house is echoing to her song. 

Goddess or woman — let's call out to her now!' 

So he urged and the men called out and hailed her. 
She opened her gleaming doors at once and stepped forth, 
inviting them all in, and in they went, all innocence. 
Only Eurylochus stayed behind — he sensed a trap . . . 
She ushered them in to sit on high-backed chairs, 
then she mixed them a potion — cheese, barley 
and pale honey mulled in Pramnian wine — 
but into the brew she stirred her wicked drugs 
to wipe from their memories any thought of home. 
Once they'd drained the bowls she filled, suddenly 
she struck with her wand, drove them into her pigsties, 
all of them bristling into swine — with grunts, 
snouts — even their bodies, yes, and only 



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BOOK 10: THE BEWITCHING QUEEN OF AEAEA 239 



the men's minds stayed steadfast as before. 
So off they went to their pens, sobbing, squealing 
as Circe flung them acorns, cornel nuts and mast, 
common fodder for hogs that root and roll in mud. 

Back Eurylochus ran to our swift black ship 
to tell the disaster our poor friends had faced. 
But try as he might, he couldn't get a word out. 
Numbing sorrow had stunned the man to silence — 
tears welled in his eyes, his heart possessed by grief. 
We assailed him with questions — all at our wits' end — 
till at last he could recount the fate our friends had met: 
'Off we went through the brush, captain, as you commanded. 
Deep in the wooded glens we came on Circe's palace 
built of dressed stone on a cleared rise of land. 
Someone inside was plying a great loom, 
and how she sang — in a high clear voice! 
Goddess or woman — we called out and hailed her . . . 
She opened her gleaming doors at once and stepped forth, 
inviting us all in, and in we went, all innocence. 
But / stayed behind — I sensed a trap. Suddenly 
all vanished — blotted out — not one face showed again, 
though I sat there keeping watch a good long time.' 

At that report I slung the hefty bronze blade 
of my silver-studded sword around my shoulder, 
slung my bow on too and told our comrade, 
'Lead me back by the same way that you came.' 
But he flung both arms around my knees and pleaded, 
begging me with his tears and winging words: 
'Don't force me back there, captain, king — 
leave me here on the spot. 
You will never return yourself, I swear, 
you'll never bring back a single man alive. 
Quick, cut and run with the rest of us here — 
we can still escape the fatal day!' 

But I shot back, 'Eurylochus, stay right here, 



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eating, drinking, safe by the black ship. 
I must be off. Necessity drives me on.' 

Leaving the ship and shore, I headed inland, 
clambering up through hushed, entrancing glades until, 
as I was nearing the halls of Circe skilled in spells, 
approaching her palace— Hermes god of the golden wand 
crossed my path, and he looked for all the world 
like a young man sporting his first beard, 
just in the prime and warm pride of youth, 
and grasped me by the hand and asked me kindly, 
'Where are you going now, my unlucky friend — 
trekking over the hills alone in unfamiliar country? 
And your men are all in there, in Circe's palace, 
cooped like swine, hock by jowl in the sties. 
Have you come to set them free? 
Well, I warn you, you won't get home yourself, 
you'll stay right there, trapped with all the rest. 
But wait, I can save you, free you from that great danger. 
Look, here is a potent drug. Take it to Circe's halls- 
its power alone will shield you from the fatal day. 
Let me tell you of all the witch's subtle craft . . . 
She'll mix you a potion, lace the brew with drugs 
but she'll be powerless to bewitch you, even so — 
this magic herb I give will fight her spells. 
Now here's your plan of action, step by step. 
The moment Circe strikes with her long thin wand, 
you draw your sharp sword sheathed at your hip 
and rush her fast as if to run her through! 
She'll cower in fear and coax you to her bed — 
but don't refuse the goddess' bed, not then, not if 
she's to release your friends and treat you well yourself. 
But have her swear the binding oath of the blessed gods 
she'll never plot some new intrigue to harm you, 
once you lie there naked — 
never unman you, strip away your courage!' 

With that 
the giant-killer handed over the magic herb, 



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pulling it from the earth, 

and Hermes showed me all its name and nature. 

Its root is black and its flower white as milk 

and the gods call it moly. Dangerous for a mortal man 

to pluck from the soil but not for deathless gods. 

All lies within their power. 

Now Hermes went his way 
to the steep heights of Olympus, over the island's woods 
while I, just approaching the halls of Circe, 
my heart a heaving storm at every step, 
paused at her doors, the nymph with lovely braids — 
I stood and shouted to her there. She heard my voice, 
she opened the gleaming doors at once and stepped forth, 
inviting me in, and in I went, all anguish now . . . 
She led me in to sit on a silver-studded chair, 
ornately carved, with a stool to rest my feet. 
In a golden bowl she mixed a potion for me to drink, 
stirring her poison in, her heart aswirl with evil. 
And then she passed it on, I drank it down 
but it never worked its spell — 
she struck with her wand and 'Now,' she cried, 
'off to your sty, you swine, and wallow with your friends!' 
But I, I drew my sharp sword sheathed at my hip 
and rushed her fast as if to run her through — 
She screamed, slid under my blade, hugged my knees 
with a flood of warm tears and a burst of winging words: 
'Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents? 
I'm wonderstruck — you drank my drugs, you're not bewitched! 
Never has any other man withstood my potion, never, 
once it's past his lips and he has drunk it down. 
You have a mind in you no magic can enchant! 
You must be Odysseus, man of twists and turns — 
Hermes the giant-killer, god of the golden wand, 
he always said you'd come, 

homeward bound from Troy in your swift black ship. 
Come, sheathe your sword, let's go to bed together, 
mount my bed and mix in the magic work of love — 
we'll breed deep trust between us.' 



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So she enticed 
but I fought back, still wary. 'Circe, Circe, 
how dare you tell me to treat you with any warmth? 
You who turned my men to swine in your own house and now 
you hold me here as well— teeming with treachery 
you lure me to your room to mount your bed, 
so once I lie there naked 
you'll unman me, strip away my courage! 
Mount your bed? Not for all the world. Not 
until you consent to swear, goddess, a binding oath 
you'll never plot some new intrigue to harm me!' 

Straightaway 

she began to swear the oath that I required— never, 
she'd never do me harm — and when she'd finished, 
then, at last, I mounted Circe's gorgeous bed . . . 

At the same time her handmaids bustled through the halls, 
four in all who perform the goddess' household tasks: 
nymphs, daughters born of the springs and groves 
and the sacred rivers running down to open sea. 
One draped the chairs with fine crimson covers 
over the seats she'd spread with linen cloths below. 
A second drew up silver tables before the chairs 
and laid out golden trays to hold the bread. 
A third mulled heady, heart-warming wine 
in a silver bowl and set out golden cups. 
A fourth brought water and lit a blazing fire 
beneath a massive cauldron. The water heated soon, 
and once it reached the boil in the glowing bronze 
she eased me into a tub and bathed me from the cauldron, 
mixing the hot and cold to suit my taste, showering 
head and shoulders down until she'd washed away 
the spirit-numbing exhaustion from my body. 
The bathing finished, rubbing me sleek with oil, 
throwing warm fleece and a shirt around my shoulders, 
she led me in to sit on a silver-studded chair, 
ornately carved, with a stool to rest my feet. 
A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher 



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and over a silver basin tipped it out 

so I might rinse my hands, 

then pulled a gleaming table to my side. 

A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve me, 

appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. 

She pressed me to eat. I had no taste for food. 

I just sat there, mind wandering, far away . . . 

lost in grim forebodings. 

As soon as Circe saw me, 
huddled, not touching my food, immersed in sorrow, 
she sidled near with a coaxing, winged word: 
'Odysseus, why just sit there, struck dumb, 
eating your heart out, not touching food or drink? 
Suspect me of still more treachery? Nothing to fear. 
Haven't I just sworn my solemn, binding oath?' 

So she asked, but I protested, 'Circe — 
how could any man in his right mind endure 
the taste of food and drink before he'd freed 
his comrades-in-arms and looked them in the eyes? 
If you, you really want me to eat and drink, 
set them free, all my beloved comrades — 
let me feast my eyes.' 

So I demanded. 
Circe strode on through the halls and out, 
her wand held high in hand and, flinging open the pens, 
drove forth my men, who looked like full-grown swine. 
Facing her, there they stood as she went along the ranks, 
anointing them one by one with some new magic oil — 
and look, the bristles grown by the first wicked drug 
that Circe gave them slipped away from their limbs 
and they turned men again: younger than ever, 
taller by far, more handsome to the eye, and yes, 
they knew me at once and each man grasped my hands 
and a painful longing for tears overcame us all, 
a terrible sobbing echoed through the house . . . 
The goddess herself was moved and, standing by me, 
warmly urged me on — a lustrous goddess now: 



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'Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, tried and true, 
go at once to your ship at the water's edge, 
haul her straight up on the shore first 
and stow your cargo and running gear in caves, 
then back you come and bring your trusty crew.' 

Her urging won my stubborn spirit over. 
Down I went to the swift ship at the water's edge, 
and there on the decks I found my loyal crew 
consumed with grief and weeping live warm tears. 
But now, as calves in stalls when cows come home, 
droves of them herded back from field to farmyard 
once they've grazed their fill — as all their young calves 
come frisking out to meet them, bucking out of their pens, 
lowing nonstop, jostling, rushing round their mothers — 
so my shipmates there at the sight of my return 
came pressing round me now, streaming tears, 
so deeply moved in their hearts they felt as if 
they'd made it back to their own land, their city, 
Ithaca's rocky soil where they were bred and reared. 
And through their tears their words went winging home: 
'You're back again, my king! How thrilled we are — 
as if we'd reached our country, Ithaca, at last! 
But come, tell us about the fate our comrades met.' 

Still I replied with a timely word of comfort: 
'Let's haul our ship straight up on the shore first 
and stow our cargo and running gear in caves. 
Then hurry, all of you, come along with me 
to see our friends in the magic halls of Circe, 
eating and drinking — the feast flows on forever.' 

So I said and they jumped to do my bidding. 
Only Eurylochus tried to hold my shipmates back, 
his mutinous outburst aimed at one and all: 
'Poor fools, where are we running now? 
Why are we tempting fate? — 
why stumble blindly down to Circe's halls? 



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She'll turn us all into pigs or wolves or lions 
made to guard that palace of hers — by force, I tell you — 
just as the Cyclops trapped our comrades in his lair 
with hotheaded Odysseus right beside them all — 
thanks to this man's rashness they died too!' 

So he declared and I had half a mind 
to draw the sharp sword from beside my hip 
and slice his head off, tumbling down in the dust, 
close kin that he was. But comrades checked me, 
each man trying to calm me, left and right: 
'Captain, we'll leave him here if you command, 
just where he is, to sit and guard the ship. 
Lead us on to the magic halls of Circe.' 

With that, 
up from the ship and shore they headed inland. 
Nor did Eurylochus malinger by the hull; 
he straggled behind the rest, 
dreading the sharp blast of my rebuke. 

All the while 
Circe had bathed my other comrades in her palace, 
caring and kindly, rubbed them sleek with oil 
and decked them out in fleecy cloaks and shirts. 
We found them all together, feasting in her halls. 
Once we had recognized each other, gazing face-to-face, 
we all broke down and wept — and the house resounded now 
and Circe the lustrous one came toward me, pleading, 
'Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, man of action, 
no more tears now, calm these tides of sorrow. 
Well I know what pains you bore on the swarming sea, 
what punishment you endured from hostile men on land. 
But come now, eat your food and drink your wine 
till the same courage fills your chests, now as then, 
when you first set sail from native land, from rocky Ithaca! 
Now you are burnt-out husks, your spirits haggard, sere, 
always brooding over your wanderings long and hard, 
your hearts never lifting with any joy — 
you've suffered far too much.' 



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So she enticed 
and won our battle-hardened spirits over. 
And there we sat at ease, 
day in, day out, till a year had run its course, 
feasting on sides of meat and drafts of heady wine . . . 
But then, when the year was through and the seasons wheeled by 
and the months waned and the long days came round again, 
my loyal comrades took me aside and prodded, 
'Captain, this is madness! 

High time you thought of your own home at last, 
if it really is your fate to make it back alive 
and reach your well-built house and native land.' 

Their urging brought my stubborn spirit round. 
So all that day till the sun went down we sat 
and feasted on sides of meat and heady wine. 
Then when the sun had set and night came on 
the men lay down to sleep in the shadowed halls 
but I went up to that luxurious bed of Circe's, 
hugged her by the knees 

and the goddess heard my winging supplication: 
'Circe, now make good a promise you gave me once — 
it's time to help me home. My heart longs to be home, 
my comrades' hearts as well. They wear me down, 
pleading with me whenever you're away.' 

So I pressed 
and the lustrous goddess answered me in turn: 
'Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, old campaigner, 
stay on no more in my house against your will. 
But first another journey calls. You must travel down 
to the House of Death and the awesome one, Persephone, 
there to consult the ghost of Tiresias, seer of Thebes, 
the great blind prophet whose mind remains unshaken. 
Even in death — Persephone has given him wisdom, 
everlasting vision to him and him alone . . . 
the rest of the dead are empty, flitting shades.' 

So she said and crushed the heart inside me. 



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I knelt in her bed and wept. I'd no desire 
to go on living and see the rising light of day. 
But once I'd had my fill of tears and writhing there, 
at last I found the words to venture, 'Circe, Circe, 
who can pilot us on that journey? Who has ever 
reached the House of Death in a black ship?' 



550 



The lustrous goddess answered, never pausing, 
'Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, born for exploits, 
let no lack of a pilot at the helm concern you, no, 
just step your mast and spread your white sail wide — 
sit back and the North Wind will speed you on your way. 
But once your vessel has cut across the Ocean River 
you will raise a desolate coast and Persephone's Grove, 
her tall black poplars, willows whose fruit dies young. 
Beach your vessel hard by the Ocean's churning shore 
and make your own way down to the moldering House of Death. 
And there into Acheron, the Flood of Grief, two rivers flow, 
the torrent River of Fire, the wailing River of Tears 
that branches off from Styx, the Stream of Hate, 
and a stark crag looms 

where the two rivers thunder down and meet. 
Once there, go forward, hero. Do as I say now. 
Dig a trench of about a forearm's depth and length 
and around it pour libations out to all the dead — 
first with milk and honey, and then with mellow wine, 
then water third and last, and sprinkle glistening barley 
over it all, and vow again and again to all the dead, 
to the drifting, listless spirits of their ghosts, 
that once you return to Ithaca you will slaughter 
a barren heifer in your halls, the best you have, 
and load a pyre with treasures — and to Tiresias, 
alone, apart, you will offer a sleek black ram, 
the pride of all your herds. And once your prayers 
have invoked the nations of the dead in their dim glory, 
slaughter a ram and black ewe, turning both their heads 
toward Erebus, but turn your head away, looking toward 
the Ocean River. Suddenly then the countless shades 



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of the dead and gone will surge around you there. 

But order your men at once to flay the sheep 

that lie before you, killed by your ruthless blade, 

and burn them both, and then say prayers to the gods, 

to the almighty god of death and dread Persephone. 

But you — draw your sharp sword from beside your hip, 

sit down on alert there, and never let the ghosts 

of the shambling, shiftless dead come near that blood 

till you have questioned Tiresias yourself. Soon, soon 

the great seer will appear before you, captain of armies: 

he will tell you the way to go, the stages of your voyage, 

how you can cross the swarming sea and reach home at last.' 



590 



And with those words Dawn rose on her golden throne 
and Circe dressed me quickly in sea-cloak and shirt 
while the queen slipped on a loose, glistening robe, 
filmy, a joy to the eye, and round her waist 
she ran a brocaded golden belt 
and over her head a scarf to shield her brow. 
And I strode on through the halls to stir my men, 
hovering over each with a winning word: 'Up now! 
No more lazing away in sleep, we must set sail — 
Queen Circe has shown the way.' 

I brought them round, 
my hardy friends-in-arms, but not even from there 
could I get them safely off without a loss . . . 
There was a man, Elpenor, the youngest in our ranks, 
none too brave in battle, none too sound in mind. 
He'd strayed from his mates in Circe's magic halls 
and keen for the cool night air, 
sodden with wine he'd bedded down on her roofs. 
But roused by the shouts and tread of marching men, 
he leapt up with a start at dawn but still so dazed 
he forgot to climb back down again by the long ladder — 
headfirst from the roof he plunged, his neck snapped 
from the backbone, his soul flew down to Death. 



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Once on our way, I gave the men their orders: 



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'You think we are headed home, our own dear land? 
Well, Circe sets us a rather different course ... 620 

down to the House of Death and the awesome one, Persephone, 
there to consult the ghost of Tiresias, seer of Thebes.' 

So I said, and it broke my shipmates' hearts. 
They sank down on the ground, moaning, tore their hair. 
But it gained us nothing — what good can come of grief? 

Back to the swift ship at the water's edge we went, 
our spirits deep in anguish, faces wet with tears. 
But Circe got to the dark hull before us, 
tethered a ram and black ewe close by — 

slipping past unseen. Who can glimpse a god 630 

who wants to be invisible gliding here and there?" 



BOOK ELEVEN 




The Kingdom of 
the Dead 



INow down we came to the ship at the water's edge, 
we hauled and launched her into the sunlit breakers first, 
stepped the mast in the black craft and set our sail 
and loaded the sheep aboard, the ram and ewe, 
then we ourselves embarked, streaming tears, 
our hearts weighed down with anguish . . . 
But Circe the awesome nymph with lovely braids 
who speaks with human voice, sent us a hardy shipmate, 
yes, a fresh following wind ruffling up in our wake, 
bellying out our sail to drive our blue prow on as we, 
securing the running gear from stem to stern, sat back 
while the wind and helmsman kept her true on course. 
The sail stretched taut as she cut the sea all day 
and the sun sank and the roads of the world grew dark. 



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BOOK 11: THE KINGDOM OF THE DEAD 



251 



And she made the outer limits, the Ocean River's bounds 
where Cimmerian people have their homes — their realm and city 
shrouded in mist and cloud. The eye of the Sun can never 
flash his rays through the dark and bring them light, 
not when he climbs the starry skies or when he wheels 
back down from the heights to touch the earth once more — 
an endless, deadly night overhangs those wretched men. 
There, gaining that point, we beached our craft 
and herding out the sheep, we picked our way 
by the Ocean's banks until we gained the place 
that Circe made our goal. 

Here at the spot 
Perimedes and Eurylochus held the victims fast, 
and I, drawing my sharp sword from beside my hip, 
dug a trench of about a forearm's depth and length 
and around it poured libations out to all the dead, 
first with milk and honey, and then with mellow wine, 
then water third and last, and sprinkled glistening barley 
over it all, and time and again I vowed to all the dead, 
to the drifting, listless spirits of their ghosts, 
that once I returned to Ithaca I would slaughter 
a barren heifer in my halls, the best I had, 
and load a pyre with treasures — and to Tiresias, 
alone, apart, I would offer a sleek black ram, 
the pride of all my herds. And once my vows 
and prayers had invoked the nations of the dead, 
I took the victims, over the trench I cut their throats 
and the dark blood flowed in — and up out of Erebus they came, 
flocking toward me now, the ghosts of the dead and gone . . . 
Brides and unwed youths and old men who had suffered much 
and girls with their tender hearts freshly scarred by sorrow 
and great armies of battle dead, stabbed by bronze spears, 
men of war still wrapped in bloody armor— thousands 
swarming around the trench from every side — 
unearthly cries — blanching terror gripped me! 
I ordered the men at once to flay the sheep 
that lay before us, killed by my ruthless blade, 



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and burn them both, and then say prayers to the gods, 
to the almighty god of death and dread Persephone. 
But I, the sharp sword drawn from beside my hip, 
sat down on alert there and never let the ghosts 
of the shambling, shiftless dead come near that blood 
till I had questioned Tiresias myself. 

But first 
the ghost of Elpenor, my companion, came toward me. 
He'd not been buried under the wide ways of earth, 
not yet, we'd left his body in Circe's house, 
unwept, unburied — this other labor pressed us. 
But I wept to see him now, pity touched my heart 
and I called out a winged word to him there: 'Elpenor, 
how did you travel down to the world of darkness? 
Faster on foot, I see, than I in my black ship.' 

My comrade groaned as he offered me an answer: 
'Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, old campaigner, 
the doom of an angry god, and god knows how much wine- 
they were my ruin, captain ... I'd bedded down 
on the roof of Circe's house but never thought 
to climb back down again by the long ladder — 
headfirst from the roof I plunged, my neck snapped 
from the backbone, my soul flew down to Death. Now, 
I beg you by those you left behind, so far from here, 
your wife, your father who bred and reared you as a boy, 
and Telemachus, left at home in your halls, your only son. 
Well I know when you leave this lodging of the dead 
that you and your ship will put ashore again 
at the island of Aeaea — then and there, 
my lord, remember me, I beg you! Don't sail off 
and desert me, left behind unwept, unburied, don't, 
or my curse may draw god's fury on your head. 
No, burn me in full armor, all my harness, 
heap my mound by the churning gray surf — 
a man whose luck ran out — 
so even men to come will learn my story. 



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Perform my rites, and plant on my tomb that oar 
I swung with mates when I rowed among the living.' 

'All this, my unlucky friend,' I reassured him, 
'I will do for you. I won't forget a thing.' 

So we sat 
and faced each other, trading our bleak parting words, 
I on my side, holding my sword above the blood, 
he across from me there, my comrade's phantom 
dragging out his story. 

But look, the ghost 
of my mother came, my mother, dead and gone now . . . 
Anticleia — daughter of that great heart Autolycus — 
whom I had left alive when I sailed for sacred Troy. 
I broke into tears to see her here, but filled with pity, 
even throbbing with grief, I would not let her ghost 
approach the blood till I had questioned Tiresias myself. 

At last he came. The shade of the famous Theban prophet, 
holding a golden scepter, knew me at once and hailed me: 
'Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, master of exploits, 
man of pain, what now, what brings you here, 
forsaking the light of day 
to see this joyless kingdom of the dead? 
Stand back from the trench — put up your sharp sword 
so I can drink the blood and tell you all the truth.' 

Moving back, I thrust my silver-studded sword 
deep in its sheath, and once he had drunk the dark blood 
the words came ringing from the prophet in his power: 
'A sweet smooth journey home, renowned Odysseus, 
that is what you seek, 

but a god will make it hard for you — I know — 
you will never escape the one who shakes the earth, 
quaking with anger at you still, still enraged 
because you blinded the Cyclops, his dear son. 
Even so, you and your crew may still reach home, 
suffering all the way, if you only have the power 



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to curb their wild desire and curb your own, what's more, 

from the day your good trim vessel first puts in 

at Thrinacia Island, flees the cruel blue sea. 

There you will find them grazing, 

herds and fat flocks, the cattle of Helios, 

god of the sun who sees all, hears all things. 

Leave the beasts unharmed, your mind set on home, 

and you all may still reach Ithaca — bent with hardship, 

true — but harm them in any way, and I can see it now: 

your ship destroyed, your men destroyed as well. 

And even if you escape, you'll come home late 

and come a broken man — all shipmates lost, 

alone in a stranger's ship — 

and you will find a world of pain at home, 

crude, arrogant men devouring all your goods, 

courting your noble wife, offering gifts to win her. 

No doubt you will pay them back in blood when you come home! 

But once you have killed those suitors in your halls — 

by stealth or in open fight with slashing bronze — 

go forth once more, you must . . . 

carry your well-planed oar until you come 

to a race of people who know nothing of the sea, 

whose food is never seasoned with salt, strangers all 

to ships with their crimson prows and long slim oars, 

wings that make ships fly. And here is your sign — 

unmistakable, clear, so clear you cannot miss it: 

When another traveler falls in with you and calls 

that weight across your shoulder a fan to winnow grain, 

then plant your bladed, balanced oar in the earth 

and sacrifice fine beasts to the lord god of the sea, 

Poseidon — a ram, a bull and a ramping wild boar — 

then journey home and render noble offerings up 

to the deathless gods who rule the vaulting skies, 

to all the gods in order. 

And at last your own death will steal upon you . . . 

a gentle, painless death, far from the sea it comes 

to take you down, borne down with the years in ripe old age 

with all your people there in blessed peace around you. 



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All that I have told you will come true.' 

'Oh Tiresias,' 
I replied as the prophet finished, 'surely the gods 
have spun this out as fate, the gods themselves. 
But tell me one thing more, and tell me clearly. 
I see the ghost of my long-lost mother here before me. 
Dead, crouching close to the blood in silence, 
she cannot bear to look me in the eyes — 
her own son — or speak a word to me. How, 
lord, can I make her know me for the man I am?' 

'One rule there is,' the famous seer explained, 
'and simple for me to say and you to learn. 
Any one of the ghosts you let approach the blood 
will speak the truth to you. Anyone you refuse 
will turn and fade away.' 

And with those words, 
now that his prophecies had closed, the awesome shade 
of lord Tiresias strode back to the House of Death. 
But I kept watch there, steadfast till my mother 
approached and drank the dark, clouding blood. 
She knew me at once and wailed out in grief 
and her words came winging toward me, flying home: 
'Oh my son — what brings you down to the world 
of death and darkness? You are still alive! 
It's hard for the living to catch a glimpse of this . . . 
Great rivers flow between us, terrible waters, 
the Ocean first of all — no one could ever ford 
that stream on foot, only aboard some sturdy craft. 
Have you just come from Troy, wandering long years 
with your men and ship? Not yet returned to Ithaca? 
You've still not seen your wife inside your halls?' 

'Mother, 
I replied, T had to venture down to the House of Death, 
to consult the shade of Tiresias, seer of Thebes. 
Never yet have I neared Achaea, never once 
set foot on native ground, 
always wandering — endless hardship from that day 



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I first set sail with King Agamemnon bound for Troy, 
the stallion-land, to fight the Trojans there. 
But tell me about yourself and spare me nothing. 
What form of death overcame you, what laid you low, 
some long slow illness? Or did Artemis showering arrows 
come with her painless shafts and bring you down? 
Tell me of father, tell of the son I left behind: 
do my royal rights still lie in their safekeeping? 
Or does some stranger hold the throne by now 
because men think that I'll come home no more? 
Please, tell me about my wife, her turn of mind, 
her thoughts . . . still standing fast beside our son, 
still guarding our great estates, secure as ever now? 
Or has she wed some other countryman at last, 
the finest prince among them?' 

'Surely, surely,' 
my noble mother answered quickly, 'she's still waiting 
there in your halls, poor woman, suffering so, 
her life an endless hardship like your own . . . 
wasting away the nights, weeping away the days. 
No one has taken over your royal rights, not yet. 
Telemachus still holds your great estates in peace, 
he attends the public banquets shared with all, 
the feasts a man of justice should enjoy, 
for every lord invites him. As for your father, 
he keeps to his own farm — he never goes to town— 
with no bed for him there, no blankets, glossy throws; 
all winter long he sleeps in the lodge with servants, 
in the ashes by the fire, his body wrapped in rags. 
But when summer comes and the bumper crops of harvest, 
any spot on the rising ground of his vineyard rows 
he makes his bed, heaped high with fallen leaves, 
and there he lies in anguish . . . 
with his old age bearing hard upon him, too, 
and his grief grows as he longs for your return. 
And I with the same grief, I died and met my fate. 
No sharp-eyed Huntress showering arrows through the halls 
approached and brought me down with painless shafts, 



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nor did some hateful illness strike me, that so often 
devastates the body, drains our limbs of power. 
No, it was my longing for you, my shining Odysseus — 
you and your quickness, you and your gentle ways — 
that tore away my life that had been sweet.' 

And I, my mind in turmoil, how I longed 
to embrace my mother's spirit, dead as she was! 
Three times I rushed toward her, desperate to hold her, 
three times she fluttered through my fingers, sifting away 
like a shadow, dissolving like a dream, and each time 
the grief cut to the heart, sharper, yes, and I, 
I cried out to her, words winging into the darkness: 
'Mother — why not wait for me? How I long to hold you!— 
so even here, in the House of Death, we can fling 
our loving arms around each other, take some joy 
in the tears that numb the heart. Or is this just 
some wraith that great Persephone sends my way 
to make me ache with sorrow all the more?' 

My noble mother answered me at once: 
'My son, my son, the unluckiest man alive! 
This is no deception sent by Queen Persephone, 
this is just the way of mortals when we die. 
Sinews no longer bind the flesh and bones together — 
the fire in all its fury burns the body down to ashes 
once life slips from the white bones, and the spirit, 
rustling, flitters away . . . flown like a dream. 
But you must long for the daylight. Go, quickly. 
Remember all these things 
so one day you can tell them to your wife.' 

And so we both confided, trading parting words, 
and there slowly came a grand array of women, 
all sent before me now by august Persephone, 
and all were wives and daughters once of princes. 
They swarmed in a flock around the dark blood 
while I searched for a way to question each alone, 



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and the more I thought, the more this seemed the best: 
Drawing forth the long sharp sword from beside my hip, 
I would not let them drink the dark blood, all in a rush, 
and so they waited, coming forward one after another. 
Each declared her lineage, and I explored them all. 

And the first I saw there? Tyro, born of kings, 
who said her father was that great lord Salmoneus, 
said that she was the wife of Cretheus, Aeolus' son. 
And once she fell in love with the river god, Enipeus, 
far the clearest river flowing across the earth, 
and so she'd haunt Enipeus' glinting streams, 
till taking his shape one day 
the god who girds the earth and makes it tremble 
bedded her where the swirling river rushes out to sea, 
and a surging wave reared up, high as a mountain, dark, 
arching over to hide the god and mortal girl together. 
Loosing her virgin belt, he lapped her round in sleep 
and when the god had consummated his work of love 
he took her by the hand and hailed her warmly: 
'Rejoice in our love, my lady! And when this year 
has run its course you will give birth to glorious children- 
bedding down with the gods is never barren, futile— 
and you must tend them, breed and rear them well. 
Now home you go, and restrain yourself, I say, 
never breathe your lover's name but know — 
I am Poseidon, god who rocks the earth!' 

With that he dove back in the heaving waves 
and she conceived for the god and bore him Pelias, Neleus, 
and both grew up to be stalwart aides of Zeus almighty, 
both men alike. Pelias lived on the plains of Iolcos, 
rich in sheepflocks, Neleus lived in sandy Pylos. 
And the noble queen bore sons to Cretheus too: 
Aeson, Pheres and Amythaon, exultant charioteer. 

And after Tyro I saw Asopus' daughter Antiope, 
proud she'd spent a night in the arms of Zeus himself 



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and borne the god twin sons, Amphion and Zethus, 

the first to build the footings of seven-gated Thebes, 

her bastions too, for lacking ramparts none could live 300 

in a place so vast, so open — strong as both men were. 

And I saw Alcmena next, Amphitryon's wife, 
who slept in the clasp of Zeus and merged in love 
and brought forth Heracles, rugged will and lion heart. 
And I saw Megara too, magnanimous Creon's daughter 
wed to the stalwart Heracles, the hero never daunted. 

And I saw the mother of Oedipus, beautiful Epicaste. 
What a monstrous thing she did, in all innocence — 
she married her own son . . . 

who'd killed his father, then he married her! 310 

But the gods soon made it known to all mankind. 
So he in growing pain ruled on in beloved Thebes, 
lording Cadmus' people — thanks to the gods' brutal plan — 
while she went down to Death who guards the massive gates. 
Lashing a noose to a steep rafter, there she hanged aloft, 
strangling in all her anguish, leaving her son to bear 
the world of horror a mother's Furies bring to life. 

And I saw magnificent Chloris, the one whom Neleus 
wooed and won with a hoard of splendid gifts, 

so dazzled by her beauty years ago ... 320 

the youngest daughter of Iasus' son Amphion, 
the great Minyan king who ruled Orchomenos once. 
She was his queen in Pylos, she bore him shining sons, 
Nestor and Chromius, Periclymenus too, good prince. 
And after her sons she bore a daughter, majestic Pero, 
the marvel of her time, courted by all the young lords 
round about. But Neleus would not give her to any suitor, 
none but the man who might drive home the herds 
that powerful Iphiclus had stolen. Lurching, 

broad in the brow, those longhorned beasts, 330 

and no small task to round them up from Phylace. 



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Only the valiant seer Melampus volunteered — 

he would drive them home — 

but a god's iron sentence bound him fast: 

barbarous herdsmen dragged him off in chains. 

Yet when the months and days had run their course 

and the year wheeled round and the seasons came again, 

then mighty Iphiclus loosed the prophet's shackles, 

once he had told him all the gods' decrees. 

And so the will of Zeus was done at last. 

And I saw Leda next, Tyndareus' wife, 
who'd borne the king two sons, intrepid twins, 
Castor, breaker of horses, and the hardy boxer Polydeuces, 
both buried now in the life-giving earth though still alive. 
Even under the earth Zeus grants them that distinction: 
one day alive, the next day dead, each twin by turns, 
they both hold honors equal to the gods'. 

And I saw Iphimedeia next, Aloeus' wife, 
who claimed she lay in the Sea-lord's loving waves 
and gave the god two sons, but they did not live long, 
Otus staunch as a god and far-famed Ephialtes. 
They were the tallest men the fertile earth has borne, 
the handsomest too, by far, aside from renowned Orion. 
Nine yards across they measured, even at nine years old, 
nine fathoms tall they towered. They even threatened 
the deathless gods they'd storm Olympus' heights 
with the pounding rush and grinding shock of battle. 
They were wild to pile Ossa upon Olympus, then on Ossa 
Pelion dense with timber — their toeholds up the heavens. 
And they'd have won the day if they had reached peak strength 
but Apollo the son of Zeus, whom sleek-haired Leto bore, 
laid both low before their beards had sprouted, 
covering cheek and chin with a fresh crop of down. 

Phaedra and Procris too I saw, and lovely Ariadne, 
daughter of Minos, that harsh king. One day Theseus tried 



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to spirit her off from Crete to Athens' sacred heights, 
but he got no joy from her. Artemis killed her first 
on wave-washed Dia's shores, accused by Dionysus. 

And I saw Clymene, Maera and loathsome Eriphyle — 
bribed with a golden necklace 
to lure her lawful husband to his death . . . 
But the whole cortege I could never tally, never name, 
not all the daughters and wives of great men I saw there. 
Long before that, the godsent night would ebb away. 
But the time has come for sleep, either with friends 
aboard your swift ship or here in your own house. 
My passage home will rest with the gods and you." 

Odysseus paused . . . They all fell silent, hushed, 
his story holding them spellbound down the shadowed halls 
till the white-armed queen Arete suddenly burst out, 
"Phaeacians! How does this man impress you now, 
his looks, his build, the balanced mind inside him? 
The stranger is my guest 
but each of you princes shares the honor here. 
So let's not be too hasty to send him on his way, 
and don't scrimp on his gifts. His need is great, 
great as the riches piled up in your houses, 
thanks to the gods' good will." 

Following her, 
the old revered Echeneus added his support, 
the eldest lord on the island of Phaeacia: 
"Friends, the words of our considerate queen — 
they never miss the mark or fail our expectations. 
So do as Arete says, though on Alcinous here 
depend all words and action." 

"And so it will be" — 
Alcinous stepped in grandly — "sure as I am alive 
and rule our island men who love their oars! 
Our guest, much as he longs for passage home, 
must stay and wait it out here till tomorrow, 
till I can collect his whole array of parting gifts. 



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His send-off rests with every noble here 

but with me most of all: 

I hold the reins of power in the realm." 

Odysseus, deft and tactful, echoed back, 
"Alcinous, majesty, shining among your island people, 
if you would urge me now to stay here one whole year 
then speed me home weighed down with lordly gifts, 
I'd gladly have it so. Better by far, I'd say. 
The fuller my arms on landing there at home, 
the more respected, well-received I'd be 
by all who saw me sailing back to Ithaca." 

"Ah Odysseus," Alcinous replied, "one look at you 
and we know that you are no one who would cheat us — 
no fraud, such as the dark soil breeds and spreads 
across the face of the earth these days. Crowds of vagabonds 
frame their lies so tightly none can test them. But you, 
what grace you give your words, and what good sense within! 
You have told your story with all a singer's skill, 
the miseries you endured, your great Achaeans too. 
But come now, tell me truly: your godlike comrades — 
did you see any heroes down in the House of Death, 
any who sailed with you and met their doom at Troy? 
The night's still young, I'd say the night is endless. 
For us in the palace now, it's hardly time for sleep. 
Keep telling us your adventures — they are wonderful. 
I could hold out here till Dawn's first light 
if only you could bear, here in our halls, 
to tell the tale of all the pains you suffered." 

So the man of countless exploits carried on: 
"Alcinous, majesty, shining among your island people, 
there is a time for many words, a time for sleep as well. 
But if you insist on hearing more, I'd never stint 
on telling my own tale and those more painful still, 
the griefs of my comrades, dead in the war's wake, 
who escaped the battle-cries of Trojan armies 



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only to die in blood at journey's end — 
thanks to a vicious woman's will. 

Now then, 
no sooner had Queen Persephone driven off 
the ghosts of lovely women, scattering left and right, 
than forward marched the shade of Atreus' son Agamemnon, 
fraught with grief and flanked by all his comrades, 440 

troops of his men-at-arms who died beside him, 
who met their fate in lord Aegisthus' halls. 
He knew me at once, as soon as he drank the blood, 
and wailed out, shrilly; tears sprang to his eyes, 
he thrust his arms toward me, keen to embrace me there — 
no use — the great force was gone, the strength lost forever, 
now, that filled his rippling limbs in the old days. 
I wept at the sight, my heart went out to the man, 
my words too, in a winging flight of pity: 

'Famous Atrides, lord of men Agamemnon! 450 

What fatal stroke of destiny brought you down? 
Wrecked in the ships when lord Poseidon roused 
some punishing blast of storm winds, gust on gust? 
Or did ranks of enemies mow you down on land 
as you tried to raid and cut off herds and flocks 
or fought to win their city, take their women?' 

The field marshal's ghost replied at once: 
'Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, mastermind of war, 
I was not wrecked in the ships when lord Poseidon 
roused some punishing blast of stormwinds, gust on gust, 460 

nor did ranks of enemies mow me down on land — 
Aegisthus hatched my doom and my destruction, 
he killed me, he with my own accursed wife . . . 
he invited me to his palace, sat me down to feast 
then cut me down as a man cuts down some ox at the trough! 
So I died — a wretched, ignominious death — and round me 
all my comrades killed, no mercy, one after another, 
just like white-tusked boars 
butchered in some rich lord of power's halls 



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for a wedding, banquet or groaning public feast. 470 

You in your day have witnessed hundreds slaughtered, 

killed in single combat or killed in pitched battle, true, 

but if you'd laid eyes on this it would have wrenched your heart — 

how we sprawled by the mixing-bowl and loaded tables there, 

throughout the palace, the whole floor awash with blood. 

But the death-shriek of Cassandra, Priam's daughter — 

most pitiful thing I heard! My treacherous queen, 

Clytemnestra, killed her over my body, yes, and I, 

lifting my fists, beat them down on the ground, 

dying, dying, writhing around the sword. 480 

But she, that whore, she turned her back on me, 

well on my way to Death — she even lacked the heart 

to seal my eyes with her hand or close my jaws. 

So, 
there's nothing more deadly, bestial than a woman 
set on works like these — what a monstrous thing 
she plotted, slaughtered her own lawful husband! 
Why, I expected, at least, some welcome home 
from all my children, all my household slaves 
when I came sailing back again . . . But she — 

the queen hell-bent on outrage — bathes in shame 490 

not only herself but the whole breed of womankind, 
even the honest ones to come, forever down the years!' 

So he declared and I cried out, 'How terrible! 
Zeus from the very start, the thunder king 
has hated the race of Atreus with a vengeance — 
his trustiest weapon women's twisted wiles. 
What armies of us died for the sake of Helen . . . 
Clytemnestra schemed your death while you were worlds away!' 

'True, true,' Agamemnon's ghost kept pressing on, 
'so even your own wife — never indulge her too far. 500 

Never reveal the whole truth, whatever you may know; 
just tell her a part of it, be sure to hide the rest. 
Not that you, Odysseus, will be murdered by your wife. 



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She's much too steady, her feelings run too deep, 

Icarius' daughter Penelope, that wise woman. 

She was a young bride, I well remember . . . 

we left her behind when we went off to war, 

with an infant boy she nestled at her breast. 

That boy must sit and be counted with the men now — 

happy man! His beloved father will come sailing home 

and see his son, and he will embrace his father, 

that is only right. But my wife — she never 

even let me feast my eyes on my own son; 

she killed me first, his father! 

I tell you this — bear it in mind, you must — 

when you reach your homeland steer your ship 

into port in secret, never out in the open . . . 

the time for trusting women's gone forever! 

Enough. Come, tell me this, and be precise. 
Have you heard news of my son? Where's he living now? 
Perhaps in Orchomenos, perhaps in sandy Pylos 
or off in the Spartan plains with Menelaus? 
He's not dead yet, my Prince Orestes, no, 
he's somewhere on the earth.' 

So he probed 
but I cut it short: 'Atrides, why ask me that? 
I know nothing, whether he's dead or alive. 
It's wrong to lead you on with idle words.' 

So we stood there, trading heartsick stories, 
deep in grief, as the tears streamed down our faces. 
But now there came the ghosts of Peleus' son Achilles, 
Patroclus, fearless Antilochus — and Great Ajax too, 
the first in stature, first in build and bearing 
of all the Argives after Peleus' matchless son. 
The ghost of the splendid runner knew me at once 
and hailed me with a flight of mournful questions: 
'Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, man of tactics, 
reckless friend, what next? 



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What greater feat can that cunning head contrive? 

What daring brought you down to the House of Death? — 

where the senseless, burnt-out wraiths of mortals make their home.' 540 



The voice of his spirit paused, and I was quick to answer: 
'Achilles, son of Peleus, greatest of the Achaeans, 
I had to consult Tiresias, driven here by hopes 
he would help me journey home to rocky Ithaca. 
Never yet have I neared Achaea, never once 
set foot on native ground . . . 
my life is endless trouble. 

But you, Achilles, 
there's not a man in the world more blest than you — 
there never has been, never will be one. 
Time was, when you were alive, we Argives 
honored you as a god, and now down here, I see, 
you lord it over the dead in all your power. 
So grieve no more at dying, great Achilles.' 



550 



I reassured the ghost, but he broke out, protesting, 
'No winning words about death to me, shining Odysseus! 
By god, I'd rather slave on earth for another man — 
some dirt-poor tenant farmer who scrapes to keep alive — 
than rule down here over all the breathless dead. 
But come, tell me the news about my gallant son. 
Did he make his way to the wars, 
did the boy become a champion — yes or no? 
Tell me of noble Peleus, any word you've heard — 
still holding pride of place among his Myrmidon hordes, 
or do they despise the man in Hellas and in Phthia 
because old age has lamed his arms and legs? 
For I no longer stand in the light of day — 
the man I was — comrade-in-arms to help my father 
as once I helped our armies, killing the best fighters 
Troy could field in the wide world up there . . . 
Oh to arrive at father's house — the man I was, 
for one brief day — I'd make my fury and my hands, 



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570 



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[502-34] 



[534-63] 



BOOK 11: THE KINGDOM OF THE DEAD 



invincible hands, a thing of terror to all those men 

who abuse the king with force and wrest away his honor!' 

So he grieved but I tried to lend him heart: 
'About noble Peleus I can tell you nothing, 
but about your own dear son, Neoptolemus, 
I can report the whole story, as you wish. 
I myself, in my trim ship, I brought him 
out of Scyros to join the Argives under arms. 
And dug in around Troy, debating battle-tactics, 
he always spoke up first, and always on the mark — 
godlike Nestor and I alone excelled the boy. Yes, 
and when our armies fought on the plain of Troy 
he'd never hang back with the main force of men — 
he'd always charge ahead, 
giving ground to no one in his fury, 
and scores of men he killed in bloody combat. 
How could I list them all, name them all, now, 
the fighting ranks he leveled, battling for the Argives? 
But what a soldier he laid low with a bronze sword: 
the hero Eurypylus, Telephus' son, and round him 
troops of his own Cetean comrades slaughtered, 
lured to war by the bribe his mother took. 
The only man I saw to put Eurypylus 
in the shade was Memnon, son of the Morning. 
Again, when our champions climbed inside the horse 
that Epeus built with labor, and I held full command 
to spring our packed ambush open or keep it sealed, 
all our lords and captains were wiping off their tears, 
knees shaking beneath each man — but not your son. 
Never once did I see his glowing skin go pale- 
he never flicked a tear from his cheeks, no, 
he kept on begging me there to let him burst 
from the horse, kept gripping his hiked sword, 
his heavy bronze-tipped javelin, keen to loose 
his fighting fury against the Trojans. Then, 
once we'd sacked King Priam's craggy city, 
laden with his fair share and princely prize 



580 



590 



600 



he boarded his own ship, his body all unscarred. 
Not a wound from a flying spear or a sharp sword, 
cut-and-thrust close up — the common marks of war. 
Random, raging Ares plays no favorites.' 

So I said and 
off he went, the ghost of the great runner, Aeacus' grandson 
loping with long strides across the fields of asphodel, 
triumphant in all I had told him of his son, 
his gallant, glorious son. 

Now the rest of the ghosts, the dead and gone 
came swarming up around me — deep in sorrow there, 
each asking about the grief that touched him most. 
Only the ghost of Great Ajax, son of Telamon, 
kept his distance, blazing with anger at me still 
for the victory I had won by the ships that time 
I pressed my claim for the arms of Prince Achilles. 
His queenly mother had set them up as prizes, 
Pallas and captive Trojans served as judges. 
Would to god I'd never won such trophies! 
All for them the earth closed over Ajax, 
that proud hero Ajax . . . 
greatest in build, greatest in works of war 
of all the Argives after Peleus' matchless son. 
I cried out to him now, I tried to win him over: 
'Ajax, son of noble Telamon, still determined, 
even in death, not once to forget that rage 
you train on me for those accursed arms? 
The gods set up that prize to plague the Achaeans— 
so great a tower of strength we lost when you went down! 
For your death we grieved as we did for Achilles' death — 
we grieved incessantly, true, and none's to blame 
but Zeus, who hated Achaea's fighting spearmen 
so intensely, Zeus sealed your doom. 
Come closer, king, and listen to my story. 
Conquer your rage, your blazing, headstrong pride!' 

So I cried out but Ajax answered not a word. 



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[563-89] 



He stalked off toward Erebus, into the dark 

to join the other lost, departed dead. 

Yet now, despite his anger, 

he might have spoken to me, or I to him, 

but the heart inside me stirred with some desire 

to see the ghosts of others dead and gone. 

And I saw Minos there, illustrious son of Zeus, 650 

firmly enthroned, holding his golden scepter, 
judging all the dead . . . 
Some on their feet, some seated, all clustering 
round the king of justice, pleading for his verdicts 
reached in the House of Death with its all-embracing gates. 

I next caught sight of Orion, that huge hunter, 
rounding up on the fields of asphodel those wild beasts 
the man in life cut down on the lonely mountain-slopes, 
brandishing in his hands the bronze-studded club 
that time can never shatter. 

I saw Tityus too, 660 

son of the mighty goddess Earth — sprawling there 
on the ground, spread over nine acres — two vultures 
hunched on either side of him, digging into his liver, 
beaking deep in the blood-sac, and he with his frantic hands 
could never beat them off, for he had once dragged off 
the famous consort of Zeus in all her glory, 
Leto, threading her way toward Pytho's ridge, 
over the lovely dancing-rings of Panopeus. 

And I saw Tantalus too, bearing endless torture. 
He stood erect in a pool as the water lapped his chin — 670 

parched, he burned to drink, but he could not reach the surface, 
no, time and again the old man stooped, craving a sip, 
time and again the water vanished, swallowed down, 
laying bare the caked black earth at his feet — 
some spirit drank it dry. And over his head 
leafy trees dangled their fruit from high aloft, 
pomegranates and pears, and apples glowing red, 



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succulent figs and olives swelling sleek and dark, 

but soon as the old man would strain to clutch them fast 

a gust would toss them up to the lowering dark clouds. 



680 



And I saw Sisyphus too, bound to his own torture, 
grappling his monstrous boulder with both arms working, 
heaving, hands struggling, legs driving, he kept on 
thrusting the rock uphill toward the brink, but just 
as it teetered, set to topple over — 

time and again 
the immense weight of the thing would wheel it back and 
the ruthless boulder would bound and tumble down to the plain again — 
so once again he would heave, would struggle to thrust it up, 
sweat drenching his body, dust swirling above his head. 



And next I caught a glimpse of powerful Heracles — 
his ghost, I mean: the man himself delights 
in the grand feasts of the deathless gods on high, 
wed to Hebe, famed for her lithe, alluring ankles, 
the daughter of mighty Zeus and Hera shod in gold. 
Around him cries of the dead rang out like cries of birds, 
scattering left and right in horror as on he came like night, 
naked bow in his grip, an arrow grooved on the bowstring, 
glaring round him fiercely, forever poised to shoot. 
A terror too, that sword-belt sweeping across his chest, 
a baldric of solid gold emblazoned with awesome work . . . 
bears and ramping boars and lions with wild, fiery eyes, 
and wars, routs and battles, massacres, butchered men. 
May the craftsman who forged that masterpiece — 
whose skills could conjure up a belt like that — 
never forge another! 

Heracles knew me at once, at first glance, 
and hailed me with a winging burst of pity: 
'Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus famed for exploits, 
luckless man, you too? Braving out a fate as harsh 
as the fate I bore, alive in the light of day? 
Son of Zeus that I was, my torments never ended, 
forced to slave for a man not half the man I was: 



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710 



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[622^0] 



he saddled me with the worst heartbreaking labors. 
Why, he sent me down here once, to retrieve the hound 
that guards the dead — no harder task for me, he thought — 
but I dragged the great beast up from the underworld to earth 
and Hermes and gleaming-eyed Athena blazed the way!' 

With that he turned and back he went to the House of Death 
but I held fast in place, hoping others might still come, 
shades of famous heroes, men who died in the old days 720 

and ghosts of an even older age I longed to see, 
Theseus and Pirithous, the gods' own radiant sons. 
But before I could, the dead came surging round me, 
hordes of them, thousands raising unearthly cries, 
and blanching terror gripped me — panicked now 
that Queen Persephone might send up from Death 
some monstrous head, some Gorgon's staring face! 
I rushed back to my ship, commanded all hands 
to take to the decks and cast off cables quickly. 
They swung aboard at once, they sat to the oars in ranks 
and a strong tide of the Ocean River swept her on downstream, 730 

sped by our rowing first, then by a fresh fair wind." 



BOOK TWELVE 




The Cattle of 
the Sun 



IN ow when our ship had left the Ocean River rolling in her wake 
and launched out into open sea with its long swells to reach 
the island of Aeaea — east where the Dawn forever young 
has home and dancing-rings and the Sun his risings — 
heading in we beached our craft on the sands, 
the crews swung out on the low sloping shore 
and there we fell asleep, awaiting Dawn's first light. 

As soon as Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone again 
I dispatched some men to Circe's halls to bring 
the dead Elpenor's body. We cut logs in haste 
and out on the island's sharpest jutting headland 
held his funeral rites in sorrow, streaming tears. 
Once we'd burned the dead man and the dead man's armor, 
heaping his grave-mound, hauling a stone that coped it well, 



10 



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272 homer: the odyssey 

we planted his balanced oar aloft to crown his tomb. 

And so we saw to his rites, each step in turn. 
Nor did our coming back from Death escape Circe — 
she hurried toward us, decked in rich regalia, 
handmaids following close with trays of bread 
and meats galore and glinting ruddy wine. 
And the lustrous goddess, standing in our midst, 
hailed us warmly: 'Ah my darling, reckless friends! 
You who ventured down to the House of Death alive, 
doomed to die twice over — others die just once. 
Come, take some food and drink some wine, 
rest here the livelong day 
and then, tomorrow at daybreak, you must sail. 
But I will set you a course and chart each seamark, 
so neither on sea nor land will some new trap 
ensnare you in trouble, make you suffer more.' 

Her foresight won our fighting spirits over. 
So all that day till the sun went down we sat 
and feasted on sides of meat and heady wine, 
and then when the sun had set and night came on 
the men lay down to sleep by the ship's stern-cables. 
But Circe, taking me by the hand, drew me away 
from all my shipmates there and sat me down 
and lying beside me probed me for details. 
I told her the whole story, start to finish, 
then the queenly goddess laid my course: 
'Your descent to the dead is over, true, 
but listen closely to what I tell you now 
and god himself will bring it back to mind. 
First you will raise the island of the Sirens, 
those creatures who spellbind any man alive, 
whoever comes their way. Whoever draws too close, 
off guard, and catches the Sirens' voices in the air — 
no sailing home for him, no wife rising to meet him, 
no happy children beaming up at their father's face. 
The high, thrilling song of the Sirens will transfix him, 



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20 



30 



40 



50 



lolling there in their meadow, round them heaps of corpses, 

rotting away, rags of skin shriveling on their bones . . . 

Race straight past that coast! Soften some beeswax 

and stop your shipmates' ears so none can hear, 

none of the crew, but if you are bent on hearing, 

have them tie you hand and foot in the swift ship, 

erect at the mast-block, lashed by ropes to the mast 

so you can hear the Sirens' song to your heart's content. 

But if you plead, commanding your men to set you free, 

then they must lash you faster, rope on rope. 

But once your crew has rowed you past the Sirens 
a choice of routes is yours. I cannot advise you 
which to take, or lead you through it all — 
you must decide for yourself — 
but I can tell you the ways of either course. 
On one side beetling cliffs shoot up, and against them 
pound the huge roaring breakers of blue-eyed Amphitrite — 
the Clashing Rocks they're called by all the blissful gods. 
Not even birds can escape them, no, not even the doves 
that veer and fly ambrosia home to Father Zeus: 
even of those the sheer Rocks always pick off one 
and Father wings one more to keep the number up. 
No ship of men has ever approached and slipped past — 
always some disaster — big timbers and sailors' corpses 
whirled away by the waves and lethal blasts of fire. 
One ship alone, one deep-sea craft sailed clear, 
the Argo, sung by the world, when heading home 
from Aeetes' shores. And she would have crashed 
against those giant rocks and sunk at once if Hera, 
for love of Jason, had not sped her through. 

On the other side loom two enormous crags . . . 
One thrusts into the vaulting sky its jagged peak, 
hooded round with a dark cloud that never leaves — 
no clear bright air can ever bathe its crown, 
not even in summer's heat or harvest-time. 
No man on earth could scale it, mount its crest, 



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70 



80 



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[78-112] 



not even with twenty hands and twenty feet for climbing, 
the rock's so smooth, like dressed and burnished stone. 
And halfway up that cliffside stands a fog-bound cavern 
gaping west toward Erebus, realm of death and darkness- 
past it, great Odysseus, you should steer your ship. 
No rugged young archer could hit that yawning cave 
with a winged arrow shot from off the decks. 
Scylla lurks inside it — the yelping horror, 
yelping, no louder than any suckling pup, 
but she's a grisly monster, I assure you. 
No one could look on her with any joy, 
not even a god who meets her face-to-face . . . 
She has twelve legs, all writhing, dangling down 
and six long swaying necks, a hideous head on each, 
each head barbed with a triple row of fangs, thickset, 
packed tight — armed to the hilt with black death! 
Holed up in the cavern's bowels from her waist down 
she shoots out her heads, out of that terrifying pit, 
angling right from her nest, wildly sweeping the reefs 
for dolphins, dogfish or any bigger quarry she can drag 
from the thousands Amphitrite spawns in groaning seas. 
No mariners yet can boast they've raced their ship 
past Scylla's lair without some mortal blow — 
with each of her six heads she snatches up 
a man from the dark-prowed craft and whisks him off. 



90 



100 



110 



The other crag is lower — you will see, Odysseus — 
though both lie side-by-side, an arrow-shot apart. 
Atop it a great fig-tree rises, shaggy with leaves; 
beneath it awesome Charybdis gulps the dark water down. 
Three times a day she vomits it up, three times she gulps it down, 
that terror! Don't be there when the whirlpool swallows down — 
not even the earthquake god could save you from disaster. 
No, hug Scylla's crag — sail on past her — top speed! 
Better by far to lose six men and keep your ship 
than lose your entire crew.' 

'Yes, yes, 
but tell me the truth now, goddess,' I protested. 



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275 



'Deadly Charybdis — can't I possibly cut and run from her 
and still fight Scylla off when Scylla strikes my men?' 



'So stubborn!' the lovely goddess countered. 
'Hell-bent yet again on battle and feats of arms? 
Can't you bow to the deathless gods themselves? 
Scylla's no mortal, she's an immortal devastation, 
terrible, savage, wild, no fighting her, no defense — 
just flee the creature, that's the only way. 
Waste any time, arming for battle beside her rock, 
I fear she'll lunge out again with all of her six heads 
and seize as many men. No, row for your lives, 
invoke Brute Force, I tell you, Scylla's mother — 
she spawned her to scourge mankind, 
she can stop the monster's next attack! 



130 



Then you will make the island of Thrinacia . . . 
where herds of the Sungod's cattle graze, and fat sheep 
and seven herds of oxen, as many sheepflocks, rich and woolly, 
fifty head in each. No breeding swells their number, 
nor do they ever die. And goddesses herd them on, 
nymphs with glinting hair, Phaethousa, Lampetie, 
born to the Sungod Helios by radiant Neaera. 
Their queenly mother bred and reared them both, 
then settled them on the island of Thrinacia — 
their homeland seas away — 
to guard their father's sheep and longhom cattle. 
Leave the beasts unharmed, your mind set on home, 
and you all may still reach Ithaca — bent with hardship, 
true — but harm them in any way, and I can see it now: 
your ship destroyed, your men destroyed as well! 
And even if you escape, you'll come home late, 
all shipmates lost, and come a broken man.' 

At those words Dawn rose on her golden throne 
and lustrous Circe made her way back up the island. 
I went straight to my ship, commanding all hands 
to take to the decks and cast off cables quickly. 



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[146-78] 



They swung aboard at once, they sat to the oars in ranks 

and in rhythm churned the water white with stroke on stroke. 

And Circe the nymph with glossy braids, the awesome one 160 

who speaks with human voice, sent us a hardy shipmate, 

yes, a fresh following wind ruffling up in our wake, 

bellying out our sail to drive our blue prow on as we, 

securing the running gear from stem to stern, sat back 

while the wind and helmsman kept her true on course. 

At last, and sore at heart, I told my shipmates, 

'Friends . . . it's wrong for only one or two 

to know the revelations that lovely Circe 

made to me alone. I'll tell you all, 

so we can die with our eyes wide open now 170 

or escape our fate and certain death together. 

First, she warns, we must steer clear of the Sirens, 

their enchanting song, their meadow starred with flowers. 

I alone was to hear their voices, so she said, 

but you must bind me with tight chafing ropes 

so I cannot move a muscle, bound to the spot, 

erect at the mast-block, lashed by ropes to the mast. 

And if I plead, commanding you to set me free, 

then lash me faster, rope on pressing rope.' 

So I informed my shipmates point by point, iso 

all the while our trim ship was speeding toward 
the Sirens' island, driven on by the brisk wind. 
But then — the wind fell in an instant, 
all glazed to a dead calm . . . 
a mysterious power hushed the heaving swells. 
The oarsmen leapt to their feet, struck the sail, 
stowed it deep in the hold and sat to the oarlocks, 
thrashing with polished oars, frothing the water white. 
Now with a sharp sword I sliced an ample wheel of beeswax 
down into pieces, kneaded them in my two strong hands 190 

and the wax soon grew soft, worked by my strength 
and Helios' burning rays, the sun at high noon, 
and I stopped the ears of my comrades one by one. 
They bound me hand and foot in the tight ship — 



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277 



erect at the mast-block, lashed by ropes to the mast — 

and rowed and churned the whitecaps stroke on stroke. 

We were just offshore as far as a man's shout can carry, 

scudding close, when the Sirens sensed at once a ship 

was racing past and burst into their high, thrilling song: 

'Come closer, famous Odysseus — Achaea's pride and glory — 200 

moor your ship on our coast so you can hear our song! 

Never has any sailor passed our shores in his black craft 

until he has heard the honeyed voices pouring from our lips, 

and once he hears to his heart's content sails on, a wiser man. 

We know all the pains that Achaeans and Trojans once endured 

on the spreading plain of Troy when the gods willed it so — 

all that comes to pass on the fertile earth, we know it all!' 

So they sent their ravishing voices out across the air 
and the heart inside me throbbed to listen longer. 

I signaled the crew with frowns to set me free — 210 

they flung themselves at the oars and rowed on harder, 
Perimedes and Eurylochus springing up at once 
to bind me faster with rope on chafing rope. 
But once we'd left the Sirens fading in our wake, 
once we could hear their song no more, their urgent call — 
my steadfast crew was quick to remove the wax I'd used 
to seal their ears and loosed the bonds that lashed me. 

We'd scarcely put that island astern when suddenly 
I saw smoke and heavy breakers, heard their booming thunder. 
The men were terrified — oarblades flew from their grip, 220 

clattering down to splash in the vessel's wash. 
She lay there, dead in the water . . . 
no hands to tug the blades that drove her on. 
But I strode down the decks to rouse my crewmen, 
halting beside each one with a bracing, winning word: 
'Friends, we're hardly strangers at meeting danger — 
and this danger is no worse than what we faced 
when Cyclops penned us up in his vaulted cave 
with crushing force! But even from there my courage, 
my presence of mind and tactics saved us all, 230 



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[212-46] 



and we will live to remember this someday, 
I have no doubt. Up now, follow my orders, 
all of us work as one! You men at the thwarts — 
lay on with your oars and strike the heaving swells, 
trusting that Zeus will pull us through these straits alive. 
You, helmsman, here's your order — burn it in your mind- 
the steering-oar of our rolling ship is in your hands. 
Keep her clear of that smoke and surging breakers, 
head for those crags or she'll catch you off guard, 
she'll yaw over there — you'll plunge us all in ruin!' 



240 



So I shouted. They snapped to each command. 
No mention of Scylla — how to fight that nightmare? — 
for fear the men would panic, desert their oars 
and huddle down and stow themselves away. 
But now I cleared my mind of Circe's orders — 
cramping my style, urging me not to arm at all. 
I donned my heroic armor, seized long spears 
in both my hands and marched out on the half-deck, 
forward, hoping from there to catch the first glimpse 
of Scylla, ghoul of the cliffs, swooping to kill my men. 
But nowhere could I make her out — and my eyes ached, 
scanning that mist-bound rock face top to bottom. 



250 



Now wailing in fear, we rowed on up those straits, 
Scylla to starboard, dreaded Charybdis off to port, 
her horrible whirlpool gulping the sea-surge down, down 
but when she spewed it up — like a cauldron over a raging fire — 
all her churning depths would seethe and heave — exploding spray 
showering down to splatter the peaks of both crags at once! 
But when she swallowed the sea-surge down her gaping maw 
the whole abyss lay bare and the rocks around her roared, 
terrible, deafening — 

bedrock showed down deep, boiling 
black with sand — 

and ashen terror gripped the men. 
But now, fearing death, all eyes fixed on Charybdis — 
now Scylla snatched six men from our hollow ship, 



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279 



the toughest, strongest hands I had, and glancing 

backward over the decks, searching for my crew 

I could see their hands and feet already hoisted, 

flailing, high, higher, over my head, look — 

wailing down at me, comrades riven in agony, 

shrieking out my name for one last time! 

Just as an angler poised on a jutting rock 

flings his treacherous bait in the offshore swell, 

whips his long rod — hook sheathed in an oxhorn lure — 

and whisks up little fish he flips on the beach-break, 

writhing, gasping out their lives ... so now they writhed, 

gasping as Scylla swung them up her cliff, and there 

at her cavern's mouth she bolted them down raw — 

screaming out, flinging their arms toward me, 

lost in that mortal struggle . . . 

Of all the pitiful things I've had to witness, 

suffering, searching out the pathways of the sea, 

this wrenched my heart the most. 

But now, at last, 
putting the Rocks, Scylla and dread Charybdis far astern, 
we quickly reached the good green island of the Sun 
where Helios, lord Hyperion, keeps his fine cattle, 
broad in the brow, and flocks of purebred sheep. 
Still aboard my black ship in the open sea 
I could hear the lowing cattle driven home, 
the bleating sheep. And I was struck once more 
by the words of the blind Theban prophet, Tiresias, 
and Aeaean Circe too: time and again they told me 
to shun this island of the Sun, the joy of man. 
So I warned my shipmates gravely, sick at heart, 
'Listen to me, my comrades, brothers in hardship, 
let me tell you the dire prophecies of Tiresias 
and Aeaean Circe too: time and again they told me 
to shun this island of the Sun, the joy of man. 
Here, they warned, the worst disaster awaits us. 
Row straight past these shores — race our black ship on!' 



270 



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290 



So I said, and the warnings broke their hearts. 



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[278-311] 



But Eurylochus waded in at once — with mutiny on his mind: 

'You're a hard man, Odysseus. Your fighting spirit's 

stronger than ours, your stamina never fails. 

You must be made of iron head to foot. Look, 

your crew's half-dead with labor, starved for sleep, 

and you forbid us to set foot on land, this island here, 

washed by the waves, where we might catch a decent meal again. 

Drained as we are, night falling fast, you'd have us desert 

this haven and blunder off, into the mist-bound seas? 

Out of the night come winds that shatter vessels — 

how can a man escape his headlong death 

if suddenly, out of nowhere, a cyclone hits, 

bred by the South or stormy West Wind? They're the gales 

that tear a ship to splinters — the gods, our masters, 

willing or not, it seems. No, let's give way 

to the dark night, set out our supper here. 

Sit tight by our swift ship and then at daybreak 

board and launch her, make for open sea!' 



310 



So Eurylochus urged, and shipmates cheered. 
Then I knew some power was brewing trouble for us, 
so I let fly with an anxious plea: 'Eurylochus, 
I'm one against all — the upper hand is yours. 
But swear me a binding oath, all here, that if 
we come on a herd of cattle or fine flock of sheep, 
not one man among us — blind in his reckless ways — 
will slaughter an ox or ram. Just eat in peace, 
content with the food immortal Circe gave us.' 



320 



They quickly swore the oath that I required 
and once they had vowed they'd never harm the herds, 
they moored our sturdy ship in the deep narrow harbor, 
close to a fresh spring, and all hands disembarked 
and adeptly set about the evening meal. 
Once they'd put aside desire for food and drink, 
they recalled our dear companions, wept for the men 
that Scylla plucked from the hollow ship and ate alive, 
and a welcome sleep came on them in their tears. 



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But then, 
at the night's third watch, the stars just wheeling down, 
Zeus who marshals the stormclouds loosed a ripping wind, 
a howling, demonic gale, shrouding over in thunderheads 
the earth and sea at once — and night swept down from the sky. 
When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 
we hauled our craft ashore, securing her in a vaulted cave 
where nymphs have lovely dancing-rings and hold their sessions. 
There I called a muster, warning my shipmates yet again, 
'Friends, we've food and drink aplenty aboard the ship — 
keep hands off all these herds or we will pay the price! 
The cattle, the sleek flocks, belong to an awesome master, 
Helios, god of the sun who sees all, hears all things.' 



340 



So I warned, and my headstrong men complied. 
But for one whole month the South Wind blew nonstop, 
no other wind came up, none but the South, Southeast. 
As long as our food and ruddy wine held out, the crew, 
eager to save their lives, kept hands off the herds. 
But then, when supplies aboard had all run dry, 
when the men turned to hunting, forced to range 
for quarry with twisted hooks: for fish, birds, 
anything they could lay their hands on — 
hunger racked their bellies — I struck inland, 
up the island, there to pray to the gods. 
If only one might show me some way home! 
Crossing into the heartland, clear of the crew, 
I rinsed my hands in a sheltered spot, a windbreak, 
but soon as I'd prayed to all the gods who rule Olympus, 
down on my eyes they poured a sweet, sound sleep . . . 
as Eurylochus opened up his fatal plan to friends: 
'Listen to me, my comrades, brothers in hardship. 
All ways of dying are hateful to us poor mortals, 
true, but to die of hunger, starve to death — 
that's the worst of all. So up with you now, 
let's drive off the pick of Helios' sleek herds, 
slaughter them to the gods who rule the skies up there. 
If we ever make it home to Ithaca, native ground, 



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erect at once a glorious temple to the Sungod, 
line the walls with hoards of dazzling gifts! 
But if the Sun, inflamed for his longhorn cattle, 
means to wreck our ship and the other gods pitch in — 
I'd rather die at sea, with one deep gulp of death, 
than die by inches on this desolate island here!' 

So he urged, and shipmates cheered again. 
At once they drove off the Sungod's finest cattle — 380 

close at hand, not far from the blue-prowed ship they grazed, 
those splendid beasts with their broad brows and curving horns. 
Surrounding them in a ring, they lifted prayers to the gods, 
plucking fresh green leaves from a tall oak for the rite, 
since white strewing-barley was long gone in the ship. 
Once they'd prayed, slaughtered and skinned the cattle, 
they cut the thighbones out, they wrapped them round in fat, 
a double fold sliced clean and topped with strips of flesh. 
And since they had no wine to anoint the glowing victims, 
they made libations with water, broiling all the innards, 390 

and once they'd burned the bones and tasted the organs — 
hacked the rest into pieces, piercing them with spits. 

That moment soothing slumber fell from my eyes 
and down I went to our ship at the water's edge 
but on my way, nearing the long beaked craft, 
the smoky savor of roasts came floating up around me . . . 
I groaned in anguish, crying out to the deathless gods: 
'Father Zeus! the rest of you blissful gods who never die — 
you with your fatal sleep, you lulled me into disaster. 
Left on their own, look what a monstrous thing 400 

my crew concocted!' 

Quick as a flash 
with her flaring robes Lampetie sped the news 
to the Sun on high that we had killed his herds, 
and Helios burst out in rage to all the immortals: 
'Father Zeus! the rest of you blissful gods who never die — 
punish them all, that crew of Laertes' son Odysseus — 
what an outrage! They, they killed my cattle, 



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the great joy of my heart . . . day in, day out, 

when I climbed the starry skies and when I wheeled 

back down from the heights to touch the earth once more. 410 

Unless they pay me back in blood for the butchery of my herds, 

down I go to the House of Death and blaze among the dead!' 

But Zeus who marshals the thunderheads insisted, 
'Sun, you keep on shining among the deathless gods 
and mortal men across the good green earth. 
And as for the guilty ones, why, soon enough 
on the wine-dark sea I'll hit their racing ship 
with a white-hot bolt, I'll tear it into splinters.' 

— Or so I heard from the lovely nymph Calypso, 
who heard it herself, she said, from Hermes, god of guides. 420 

As soon as I reached our ship at the water's edge 
I took the men to task, upbraiding each in turn, 
but how to set things right? We couldn't find a way. 
The cattle were dead already . . . 
and the gods soon showed us all some fateful signs — 
the hides began to crawl, the meat, both raw and roasted, 
bellowed out on the spits, and we heard a noise 
like the moan of lowing oxen. 

Yet six more days 
my eager companions feasted on the cattle of the Sun, 
the pick of the herds they'd driven off, but then, 430 

when Cronian Zeus brought on the seventh day, 
the wind in its ceaseless raging dropped at last, 
and stepping the mast at once, hoisting the white sail 
we boarded ship and launched her, made for open sea. 

But once we'd left that island in our wake — 
no land at all in sight, nothing but sea and sky — 
then Zeus the son of Cronus mounted a thunderhead 
above our hollow ship and the deep went black beneath it. 
Nor did the craft scud on much longer. All of a sudden 
killer-squalls attacked us, screaming out of the west, 440 



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a murderous blast shearing the two forestays off 
so the mast toppled backward, its running tackle spilling 
into the bilge. The mast itself went crashing into the stern, 
it struck the helmsman's head and crushed his skull to pulp 
and down from his deck the man flipped like a diver — 
his hardy life spirit left his bones behind. 
Then, then in the same breath Zeus hit the craft 
with a lightning-bolt and thunder. Round she spun, 
reeling under the impact, filled with reeking brimstone, 
shipmates pitching out of her, bobbing round like seahawks 
swept along by the whitecaps past the trim black hull — 
and the god cut short their journey home forever. 

But I went lurching along our battered hulk 
till the sea-surge ripped the plankings from the keel 
and the waves swirled it away, stripped bare, and snapped 
the mast from the decks — but a backstay made of bull's-hide 
still held fast, and with this I lashed the mast and keel 
together, made them one, riding my makeshift raft 
as the wretched galewinds bore me on and on. 



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that's when the timbers reared back up from Charybdis. 

I let go — I plunged with my hands and feet flailing, 

crashing into the waves beside those great beams 

and scrambling aboard them fast 

I rowed hard with my hands right through the straits . . . 

And the father of men and gods did not let Scylla see me, 

else I'd have died on the spot — no escape from death. 

I drifted along nine days. On the tenth, at night, 
the gods cast me up on Ogygia, Calypso's island, 
home of the dangerous nymph with glossy braids 
who speaks with human voice, and she took me in, 
she loved me . . . Why cover the same ground again? 
Just yesterday, here at hall, I told you all the rest, 
you and your gracious wife. It goes against my grain 
to repeat a tale told once, and told so clearly." 



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At last the West Wind quit its wild rage 
but the South came on at once to hound me even more, 
making me double back my route toward cruel Charybdis. 
All night long I was rushed back, and then at break of day 
I reached the crag of Scylla and dire Charybdis' vortex 
right when the dreadful whirlpool gulped the salt sea down. 
But heaving myself aloft to clutch at the fig-tree's height, 
like a bat I clung to its trunk for dear life — not a chance 
for a good firm foothold there, no clambering up it either, 
the roots too far to reach, the boughs too high overhead, 
huge swaying branches that overshadowed Charybdis. 
But I held on, dead set . . . waiting for her 
to vomit my mast and keel back up again — 
Oh how I ached for both! and back they came, 
late but at last, at just the hour a judge at court, 
who's settled the countless suits of brash young claimants, 
rises, the day's work done, and turns home for supper — 



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Ithaca at Last 



Hi 



Lis tale was over now. The Phaeacians all fell silent, hushed, 
his story holding them spellbound down the shadowed halls 
until Alcinous found the poise to say, "Odysseus, 
now that you have come to my bronze-floored house, 
my vaulted roofs, I know you won't be driven 
off your course, nothing can hold you back — 
however much you've suffered, you'll sail home. 
Here, friends, here's a command for one and all, 
you who frequent my palace day and night and drink 
the shining wine of kings and enjoy the harper's songs. 
The robes and hammered gold and a haul of other gifts 
you lords of our island council brought our guest — 
all lie packed in his polished sea-chest now. Come, 
each of us add a sumptuous tripod, add a cauldron! 



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Then recover our costs with levies on the people: 
it's hard to afford such bounty man by man." 



The king's instructions met with warm applause 
and home they went to sleep, each in his own house. 
When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 
they hurried down to the ship with handsome bronze gifts, 
and striding along the decks, the ardent King Alcinous 
stowed them under the benches, shipshape, so nothing 
could foul the crewmen tugging at their oars. 
Then back the party went to Alcinous' house 
and shared a royal feast. 

The majestic king 
slaughtered an ox for them to Cronus' mighty son, 
Zeus of the thundercloud, whose power rules the world. 
They burned the thighs and fell to the lordly banquet, 
reveling there, while in their midst the inspired bard 
struck up a song, Demodocus, prized by all the people. 
True, but time and again Odysseus turned his face 
toward the radiant sun, anxious for it to set, 
yearning now to be gone and home once more . . . 
As a man aches for his evening meal when all day long 
his brace of wine-dark oxen have dragged the bolted plowshare 
down a fallow field — how welcome the setting sun to him, 
the going home to supper, yes, though his knees buckle, 
struggling home at last. So welcome now to Odysseus 
the setting light of day, and he lost no time 
as he pressed Phaeacia's men who love their oars, 
addressing his host, Alcinous, first and foremost: 
"Alcinous, majesty, shining among your island people, 
make your libations, launch me safely on my way — 
to one and all, farewell! 
All is now made good, my heart's desire, 
your convoy home, your precious, loving gifts, 
and may the gods of Olympus bless them for me! 
May I find an unswerving wife when I reach home, 
and loved ones hale, unharmed! And you, my friends 



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remaining here in your kingdom now, may you delight 
in your loyal wives and children! May the gods 
rain down all kinds of fortune on your lives, 
misfortune never harbor in your homeland!" 

All burst into applause, urging passage home 
for their parting guest, his farewell rang so true. 
Hallowed King Alcinous briskly called his herald: 
"Come, Pontonous! Mix the wine in the bowl, 
pour rounds to all our banqueters in the house, 
so we, with a prayer to mighty Zeus the Father, 
can sail our new friend home to native land." 

Pontonous mixed the heady, honeyed wine 
and hovering closely, poured full rounds for all. 
And from where they sat they tipped libations out 
to the happy gods who rule the vaulting skies. 
Then King Odysseus rose up from his seat 
and placing his two-eared cup in Arete's hands, 
addressed the queen with parting wishes on the wing: 
"Your health, my queen, through all your days to come — 
until old age and death, that visit all mankind, 
pay you a visit too. Now I am on my way, 
but you, may you take joy in this house of yours, 
in your children, your people, in Alcinous the king!" 

With that the great Odysseus strode across the threshold. 
And King Alcinous sent the herald off with the guest 
to lead him down to the swift ship and foaming surf. 
And Arete sent her serving-women, one to carry 
a sea-cloak, washed and fresh, a shirt as well, 
another assigned to bear the sturdy chest 
and a third to take the bread and ruddy wine. 

When they reached the ship at the water's edge 
the royal escorts took charge of the gifts at once 
and stores of food and wine, stowed them deep in the holds, 
and then for their guest they spread out rug and sheets 



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on the half-deck, clear astern on the ship's hull 

so he might sleep there soundly, undisturbed. 

And last, Odysseus climbed aboard himself 

and down he lay, all quiet, 

as crewmen sat to the oarlocks, each in line. 

They slipped the cable free of the drilled stone post 

and soon as they swung back and the blades tossed up the spray 

an irresistible sleep fell deeply on his eyes, the sweetest, 

soundest oblivion, still as the sleep of death itself . . . 

And the ship like a four-horse team careering down the plain, 

all breaking as one with the whiplash cracking smartly, 

leaping with hoofs high to run the course in no time — 

so the stern hove high and plunged with the seething rollers 

crashing dark in her wake as on she surged unwavering, 

never flagging, no, not even a darting hawk, 

the quickest thing on wings, could keep her pace 

as on she ran, cutting the swells at top speed, 

bearing a man equipped with the gods' own wisdom, 

one who had suffered twenty years of torment, sick at heart, 

cleaving his way through wars of men and pounding waves at sea 

but now he slept in peace, the memory of his struggles 

laid to rest. 

And then, that hour the star rose up, 
the clearest, brightest star, that always heralds 
the newborn light of day, the deep-sea-going ship 
made landfall on the island . . . Ithaca, at last. 

There on the coast a haven lies, named for Phorcys, 
the old god of the deep — with two jutting headlands, 
sheared off at the seaward side but shelving toward the bay, 
that break the great waves whipped by the gales outside 
so within the harbor ships can ride unmoored 
whenever they come in mooring range of shore. 
At the harbor's head a branching olive stands 
with a welcome cave nearby it, dank with sea-mist, 
sacred to nymphs of the springs we call the Naiads. 
There are mixing-bowls inside and double-handled jars, 
crafted of stone, and bees store up their honey in the hollows. 



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There are long stone looms as well, where the nymphs weave out 

their webs from clouds of sea-blue wool — a marvelous sight — 

and a wellspring flows forever. The cave has two ways in, 

one facing the North Wind, a pathway down for mortals; 

the other, facing the South, belongs to the gods, 

no man may go that way . . . 

it is the path for all the deathless powers. 



120 



Here at this bay the Phaeacian crew put in — 
they'd known it long before — driving the ship so hard 
she ran up onto the beach for a good half her length, 
such way the oarsmen's brawny arms had made. 
Up from the benches, swinging down to land, 
first they lifted Odysseus off the decks — 
linen and lustrous carpet too — and laid him 
down on the sand asleep, still dead to the world, 
then hoisted out the treasures proud Phaeacians, 
urged by open-hearted Pallas, had lavished on him, 
setting out for home. They heaped them all 
by the olive's trunk, in a neat pile, clear 
of the road for fear some passerby might spot 
and steal Odysseus' hoard before he could awaken. 
Then pushing off, they pulled for home themselves. 



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140 



But now Poseidon, god of the earthquake, never once 
forgetting the first threats he leveled at the hero, 
probed almighty Zeus to learn his plans in full: 
"Zeus, Father, I will lose all my honor now 
among the immortals, now there are mortal men 
who show me no respect — Phaeacians, too, 
born of my own loins! I said myself 
that Odysseus would suffer long and hard 
before he made it home, but I never dreamed 
of blocking his return, not absolutely at least, 
once you had pledged your word and bowed your head. 
But now they've swept him across the sea in their swift ship, 
they've set him down in Ithaca, sound asleep, and loaded the man 
with boundless gifts — bronze and hoards of gold and robes — 



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aye, more plunder than he could ever have won from Troy 
if Odysseus had returned intact with his fair share!" 

"Incredible," Zeus who marshals the thunderheads replied. 
"Earth-shaker, you with your massive power, why moaning so? 
The gods don't disrespect you. What a stir there'd be 
if they flung abuse at the oldest, noblest of them all. 
Those mortals? If any man, so lost in his strength 
and prowess, pays you no respect — just pay him back. 
The power is always yours. 
Do what you like. Whatever warms your heart." 



160 



"King of the dark cloud," the earthquake god agreed, 
"I'd like to avenge myself at once, as you advise, 
but I've always feared your wrath and shied away. 
But now I'll crush that fine Phaeacian cutter 
out on the misty sea, now on her homeward run 
from the latest convoy. They will learn at last 
to cease and desist from escorting every man alive — 
I'll pile a huge mountain round about their port!" 

"Wait, dear brother," Zeus who collects the clouds 
had second thoughts. "Here's what seems best to me. 
As the people all lean down from the city heights 
to watch her speeding home, strike her into a rock 
that looks like a racing vessel, just offshore — 
amaze all men with a marvel for the ages. 
Then pile your huge mountain round about their port." 



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Hearing that from Zeus, the god of the earthquake 
sped to Scheria now, the Phaeacians' island home, 
and waited there till the ship came sweeping in, 
scudding lightly along — and surging close abreast, 
the earthquake god with one flat stroke of his hand 
struck her to stone, rooted her to the ocean floor 
and made for open sea. 

The Phaeacians, aghast, 
those lords of the long oars, the master mariners 



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traded startled glances, sudden outcries: 

"Look — who's pinned our swift ship to the sea?" 



190 



"Just racing for home!" 



"Just hove into plain view!' 



They might well wonder, blind to what had happened, 
till Alcinous rose and made things all too clear: 
"Oh no — my father's prophecy years ago . . . 
it all comes home to me with a vengeance now! 
He'd say Poseidon was vexed with us because 
we escorted all mankind and never came to grief. 
He said that one day, as a well-built ship of ours 
sailed home on the misty sea from such a convoy, 
the god would crush it, yes, 
and pile a huge mountain round about our port. 
So the old king foretold. Now, look, it all comes true! 
Hurry, friends, do as I say, let us all comply: 
stop our convoys home for every castaway 
chancing on our city! As for Poseidon, 
sacrifice twelve bulls to the god at once — 
the pick of the herds. Perhaps he'll pity us, 
pile no looming mountain ridge around our port." 

The people, terrified, prepared the bulls at once. 
So all of Phaeacia's island lords and captains, 
milling round the altar, lifted prayers 
to Poseidon, master of the sea . . . 

That very moment 
great Odysseus woke from sleep on native ground at last- 
he'd been away for years — but failed to know the land, 
for the goddess Pallas Athena, Zeus's daughter, 
showered mist over all, so under cover 
she might change his appearance head to foot 
as she told him every peril he'd meet at home — 
keep him from being known by wife, townsmen, friends, 
till the suitors paid the price for all their outrage. 
And so to the king himself all Ithaca looked strange . . . 



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the winding beaten paths, the coves where ships can ride, 

the steep rock face of the cliffs and the tall leafy trees. 

He sprang to his feet and, scanning his own native country, 

groaned, slapped his thighs with his flat palms 

and Odysseus cried in anguish: 

"Man of misery, whose land have I lit on now? 

What are they here — violent, savage, lawless? 

or friendly to strangers, god-fearing men? 

Where can I take this heap of treasure now 

and where in the world do I wander off myself? 

If only the trove had stayed among the Phaeacians there 

and I had made my way to some other mighty king 

who would have hosted me well and sent me home! 

But now I don't know where to stow all this, 

and I can't leave it here, inviting any bandit 

to rob me blind. 

So damn those lords and captains, 
those Phaeacians! Not entirely honest or upright, were they? 
Sweeping me off to this, this no-man's-land, and they, 
they swore they'd sail me home to sunny Ithaca — well, 
they never kept their word. Zeus of the Suppliants 
pay them back — he keeps an eye on the world of men 
and punishes all transgressors! 

Come, quickly, 
I'll inspect my treasure and count it up myself. 
Did they make off with anything in their ship?" 

With that he counted up the gorgeous tripods, 
cauldrons, bars of gold and the lovely woven robes. 
Not a stitch was missing from the lot. But still 
he wept for his native country, trailing down the shore 
where the wash of sea on shingle ebbs and flows, 
his homesick heart in turmoil. 
But now Athena appeared and came toward him. 
She looked like a young man ... a shepherd boy 
yet elegant too, with all the gifts that grace the sons of kings, 
with a well-cut cloak falling in folds across her shoulders, 
sandals under her shining feet, a hunting spear in hand. 



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Odysseus, overjoyed at the sight, went up to meet her, 

joining her now with salutations on the wing: 

"Greetings, friend! Since you are the first 

I've come on in this harbor, treat me kindly — 

no cruelty, please. Save these treasures, 

save me too. I pray to you like a god, 

I fall before your knees and ask your mercy! 

And tell me this for a fact — I need to know — 

where on earth am I? what land? who lives here? 

Is it one of the sunny islands or some jutting shore 

of the good green mainland slanting down to sea?" 

Athena answered, her eyes brightening now, 
"You must be a fool, stranger, or come from nowhere, 
if you really have to ask what land this is. 
Trust me, it's not so nameless after all. 
It's known the world around, 
to all who live to the east and rising sun 
and to all who face the western mists and darkness. 
It's a rugged land, too cramped for driving horses, 
but though it's far from broad, it's hardly poor. 
There's plenty of grain for bread, grapes for wine, 
the rains never fail and the dewfall's healthy. 
Good country for goats, good for cattle too — 
there's stand on stand of timber 
and water runs in streambeds through the year. 

So, 
stranger, the name of Ithaca's reached as far as Troy, 
and Troy, they say, is a long hard sail from Greece." 

Ithaca . . . Heart racing, Odysseus that great exile 
filled with joy to hear Athena, daughter of storming Zeus, 
pronounce that name. He stood on native ground at last 
and he replied with a winging word to Pallas, 
not with a word of truth — he choked it back, 
always invoking the cunning in his heart: 
"Ithaca . . . yes, I seem to have heard of Ithaca, 
even on Crete's broad island far across the sea, 



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and now I've reached it myself, with all this loot, 

but I left behind an equal measure for my children. 

I'm a fugitive now, you see. I killed Idomeneus' son, 

Orsilochus, lightning on his legs, a man who beat 

all runners alive on that long island — what a racer! 

He tried to rob me of all the spoil I'd won at Troy, 

the plunder I went to hell and back to capture, true, 

cleaving my way through wars of men and waves at sea — 

and just because I refused to please his father, 

serve under him at Troy. I led my own command. 

So now with a friend I lay in wait by the road, 

I killed him just loping in from the fields — 

with one quick stroke of my bronze spear 

in the dead of night, the heavens pitch-black . . . 

no one could see us, spot me tearing out his life 

with a weapon honed for action. Once I'd cut him down 

I made for a ship and begged the Phoenician crew for mercy, 

paying those decent hands a hearty share of plunder — 

asked them to take me on and land me down in Pylos, 

there or lovely Elis, where Epeans rule in power. 

But a heavy galewind blew them way off course, 

much against their will — 

they'd no desire to cheat me. Driven afar, 

we reached this island here at the midnight hour, 

rowing for dear life, we made it into your harbor — 

not a thought of supper, much as we all craved food, 

we dropped from the decks and lay down, just like that! 

A welcome sleep came over my weary bones at once, 

while the crew hoisted up my loot from the holds 

and set it down on the sand near where I slept. 

They reembarked, now homeward bound for Sidon, 

their own noble city, leaving me here behind, 

homesick in my heart ..." 

As his story ended, 
goddess Athena, gray eyes gleaming, broke into a smile 
and stroked him with her hand, and now she appeared a woman, 
beautiful, tall and skilled at weaving lovely things. 
Her words went flying straight toward Odysseus: 



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"Any man — any god who met you — would have to be 

some champion lying cheat to get past you 

for all-round craft and guile! You terrible man, 

foxy, ingenious, never tired of twists and tricks — 

so, not even here, on native soil, would you give up 

those wily tales that warm the cockles of your heart! 

Come, enough of this now. We're both old hands 

at the arts of intrigue. Here among mortal men 

you're far the best at tactics, spinning yarns, 

and I am famous among the gods for wisdom, 

cunning wiles, too. 

Ah, but you never recognized me, did you? 

Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus — who always 

stands beside you, shields you in every exploit: 

thanks to me the Phaeacians all embraced you warmly. 

And now I am here once more, to weave a scheme with you 

and to hide the treasure-trove Phaeacia's nobles 

lavished on you then — I willed it, planned it so 

when you set out for home — and to tell you all 

the trials you must suffer in your palace . . . 

Endure them all. You must. You have no choice. 

And to no one — no man, no woman, not a soul — 

reveal that you are the wanderer home at last. 

No, in silence you must bear a world of pain, 

subject yourself to the cruel abuse of men." 

"Ah goddess," the cool tactician countered, 
"you're so hard for a mortal man to know on sight, 
however shrewd he is — the shapes you take are endless! 
But I do know this: you were kind to me in the war years, 
so long as we men of Achaea soldiered on at Troy. 
But once we'd sacked King Priam's craggy city, 
boarded ship, and a god dispersed the fleet, 
from then on, daughter of Zeus, I never saw you, 
never glimpsed you striding along my decks 
to ward off some disaster. No, I wandered on, 
my heart forever torn to pieces inside my chest 



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till the gods released me from my miseries at last, 

that day in the fertile kingdom of Phaeacia when 

you cheered me with words, in person, led me to their city. 

But now I beg you by your almighty Father's name . . . 

for I can't believe I've reached my sunny Ithaca, 

I must be roaming around one more exotic land — 

you're mocking me, I know it, telling me tales 

to make me lose my way. Tell me the truth now, 

have I really reached the land I love?" 

"Always the same, your wary turn of mind," 
Athena exclaimed, her glances flashing warmly. 
"That's why I can't forsake you in your troubles — 
you are so winning, so worldly-wise, so self-possessed! 
Anyone else, come back from wandering long and hard, 
would have hurried home at once, delighted to see 
his children and his wife. Oh, but not you, 
it's not your pleasure to probe for news of them — 
you must put your wife to the proof yourself! 
But she, she waits in your halls, as always, 
her life an endless hardship . . . 
wasting away the nights, weeping away the days. 
I never had doubts myself, no, I knew down deep 
that you would return at last, with all your shipmates lost. 
But I could not bring myself to fight my Father's brother, 
Poseidon, quaking with anger at you, still enraged 
because you blinded the Cyclops, his dear son. 
But come, let me show you Ithaca's setting, 
I'll convince you. This haven — look around — 
it's named for Phorcys, the old god of the deep, 
and here at the harbor's head the branching olive stands 
with the welcome cave nearby it, dank with sea-mist, 
sacred to nymphs of the springs we call the Naiads. 
Here, under its arching vault, time and again 
you'd offer the nymphs a generous sacrifice 
to bring success! And the slopes above you, look, 
Mount Neriton decked in forests!" 



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At those words 400 

the goddess scattered the mist and the country stood out clear 
and the great man who had borne so much rejoiced at last, 
thrilled to see his Ithaca — kissed the good green earth 
and raised his hands to the nymphs and prayed at once, 
"Nymphs of the springs, Naiads, daughters of Zeus, 
I never dreamed I would see you yet again . . . 
Now rejoice in my loving prayers — and later, 
just like the old days, I will give you gifts 
if Athena, Zeus's daughter, Queen of Armies 

comes to my rescue, grants this fighter life 410 

and brings my son to manhood!" 

"Courage!" — 
goddess Athena answered, eyes afire — 
"Free your mind of all that anguish now. 
Come, quick, let's bury your treasures here 
in some recess of this haunted hallowed cave 
where they'll be safe and sound, 
then we'll make plans so we can win the day." 

With that 
the goddess swept into the cavern's shadowed vault, 
searching for hiding-places far inside its depths 

while Odysseus hauled his treasures closer up, 420 

the gold, durable bronze and finespun robes, 
the Phaeacians' parting gifts. 
Once he'd stowed them well away, the goddess, 
Pallas Athena, daughter of storming Zeus, 
sealed the mouth of the cavern with a stone. 

Then down they sat by the sacred olive's trunk 
to plot the death of the high and mighty suitors. 
The bright-eyed goddess Athena led the way: 
"Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, old campaigner, 

think how to lay your hands on all those brazen suitors, 430 

lording it over your house now, three whole years, 
courting your noble wife, offering gifts to win her. 
But she, forever broken-hearted for your return, 
builds up each man's hopes — 



[380-413] 



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299 



dangling promises, dropping hints to each — 
but all the while with something else in mind." 

"God help me!" the man of intrigue broke out: 
"Clearly I might have died the same ignoble death 
as Agamemnon, bled white in my own house too, 
if you had never revealed this to me now, 
goddess, blow-by-blow. 

Come, weave us a scheme so I can pay them back! 
You stand beside me, fire me with daring, fierce 
as the day we ripped Troy's glittering crown of towers down. 
Stand by me — furious now as then, my bright-eyed one — 
and I would fight three hundred men, great goddess, 
with you to brace me, comrade-in-arms in battle!" 

Gray eyes ablaze, the goddess urged him on: 
"Surely I'll stand beside you, not forget you, 
not when the day arrives for us to do our work. 
Those men who court your wife and waste your goods? 
I have a feeling some will splatter your ample floors 
with all their blood and brains. Up now, quickly. 
First I will transform you — no one must know you. 
I will shrivel the supple skin on your lithe limbs, 
strip the russet curls from your head and deck you out 
in rags you'd hate to see some other mortal wear; 
I'll dim the fire in your eyes, so shining once — 
until you seem appalling to all those suitors, 
even your wife and son you left behind at home. 
But you, you make your way to the swineherd first, 
in charge of your pigs, and true to you as always, 
loyal friend to your son, to Penelope, so self-possessed. 
You'll find him posted beside his swine, grubbing round 
by Raven's Rock and the spring called Arethusa, 
rooting for feed that makes pigs sleek and fat, 
the nuts they love, the dark pools they drink. 
Wait there, sit with him, ask him all he knows. 
I'm off to Sparta, where the women are a wonder, 
to call Telemachus home, your own dear son, Odysseus. 



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He's journeyed to Lacedaemon's rolling hills 
to see Menelaus, questing for news of you, 
hoping to learn if you are still alive." 

Shrewd Odysseus answered her at once: 
"Why not tell him the truth? You know it all. 
Or is he too — like father, like son — condemned 
to hardship, roving over the barren salt sea 
while strangers devour our livelihood right here?" 

But the bright-eyed goddess reassured him firmly: 
"No need for anguish, trust me, not for him — 480 

I escorted your son myself 
so he might make his name by sailing there. 
Nor is he saddled down with any troubles now. 
He sits at ease in the halls of Menelaus, 
bathed in endless bounty . . . True enough, 
some young lords in a black cutter lurk in ambush, 
poised to kill the prince before he reaches home, 
but I have my doubts they will. Sooner the earth 
will swallow down a few of those young gallants 
who eat you out of house and home these days!" 490 

No more words, not now — 
Athena stroked Odysseus with her wand. 
She shriveled the supple skin on his lithe limbs, 
stripped the russet curls from his head, covered his body 
top to toe with the wrinkled hide of an old man 
and dimmed the fire in his eyes, so shining once. 
She turned his shirt and cloak into squalid rags, 
ripped and filthy, smeared with grime and soot. 
She flung over this the long pelt of a bounding deer, 
rubbed bare, and gave him a staff and beggar's sack, 500 

torn and tattered, slung from a fraying rope. 

All plans made, 
they went their separate ways — Athena setting off 
to bring Telemachus home from hallowed Lacedaemon. 



BOOK FOURTEEN 




The Loyal 
Swineherd 



Joup from the haven now Odysseus climbed a rugged path 
through timber along high ground — Athena had shown the way- 
to reach the swineherd's place, that fine loyal man 
who of all the household hands Odysseus ever had 
cared the most for his master's worldly goods. 

Sitting at the door of his lodge he found him, 
there in his farmstead, high-walled, broad and large, 
with its long view on its cleared rise of ground . . . 
The swineherd made those walls with his own hands 
to enclose the pigs of his master gone for years. 
Alone, apart from his queen or old Laertes, 
he'd built them up of quarried blocks of stone 
and coped them well with a fence of wild pear. 



10 



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in-i5} 



Outside he'd driven stakes in a long-line stockade, 

a ring of thickset palings split from an oak's dark heart. 

Within the yard he'd built twelve sties, side-by-side, 

to bed his pigs, and in each one fifty brood-sows 

slept aground, penned and kept for breeding. 

The boars slept outside, but far fewer of them, 

thanks to the lordly suitors' feasts that kept on 20 

thinning the herd and kept the swineherd stepping, 

sending to town each day the best fat hog in sight. 

By now they were down to three hundred and sixty head. 

But guarding them all the time were dogs like savage beasts, 

a pack of four, reared by the swineherd, foreman of men. 

The man himself was fitting sandals to his feet, 

carving away at an oxhide, dark and supple. 

As for his men, three were off with their pigs, 

herding them here or there. Under orders he'd sent 

a fourth to town, with hog in tow for the gorging suitors 30 

to slaughter off and glut themselves with pork. 

Suddenly — those snarling dogs spotted Odysseus, 
charged him fast — a shatter of barks — but Odysseus 
sank to the ground at once, he knew the trick: 
the staff dropped from his hand but here and now, 
on his own farm, he might have taken a shameful mauling. 
Yes, but the swineherd, quick to move, dashed for the gate, 
flinging his oxhide down, rushed the dogs with curses, 
scattered them left and right with flying rocks 

and warned his master, "Lucky to be alive, old man — 40 

a moment more, my pack would have torn you limb from limb! 
Then you'd have covered me with shame. As if the gods 
had never given me blows and groans aplenty . . . 
Here I sit, my heart aching, broken for him, 
my master, my great king— fattening up 
his own hogs for other men to eat, while he, 
starving for food, I wager, wanders the earth, 
a beggar adrift in strangers' cities, foreign-speaking lands, 
if he's still alive, that is, still sees the rising sun. 
Come, follow me into my place, old man, so you, 50 



[45-73] 



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at least, can eat your fill of bread and wine. 
Then you can tell me where you're from 
and all the pains you've weathered." 

On that note 
the loyal swineherd led the way to his shelter, 
showed his guest inside and sat Odysseus down 
on brush and twigs he piled up for the visitor, 
flinging over these the skin of a shaggy wild goat, 
broad and soft, the swineherd's own good bedding. 
The king, delighted to be so well received, 
thanked the man at once: "My host — may Zeus 
and the other gods give you your heart's desire 
for the royal welcome you have shown me here!" 

And you replied, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, 
"It's wrong, my friend, to send any stranger packing- 
even one who arrives in worse shape than you. 
Every stranger and beggar comes from Zeus 
and whatever scrap they get from the likes of us, 
they'll find it welcome. That's the best we can do, 
we servants, always cowed by our high and mighty masters, 
especially our young lords . . . But my old master? 
The gods, they must have blocked his journey home. 
He'd have treated me well, he would, with a house, 
a plot of land and a wife you'd gladly prize. 
Goods that a kind lord will give a household hand 
who labors for him, hard, whose work the gods have sped, 
just as they speed the work I labor at all day. 
My master, I tell you, would have repaid me well 
if he'd grown old right here. But now he's dead . . . 
If only Helen and all her kind had died out too, 
brought to her knees, just as she cut the legs 
from under troops of men! My king among them, 
he went off to the stallion-land of Troy 
to fight the Trojans, save Agamemnon's honor!" 



60 



70 



80 



Enough- 



he brusquely cinched his belt around his shirt, 
strode out to the pens, crammed with droves of pigs, 



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picked out two, bundled them in and slaughtered both, 

singed them, sliced them down, skewered them through 

and roasting all to a turn, set them before Odysseus, 

sizzling hot on the spits. 

Then coating the meat with white barley groats 

and mixing honeyed wine in a carved wooden bowl, 

he sat down across from his guest, inviting warmly, 

"Eat up now, my friend. It's all we slaves have got, 

scrawny pork, while the suitors eat the fatted hogs — 

no fear of the gods in their hard hearts, no mercy! 

Trust me, the blessed gods have no love for crime. 

They honor justice, honor the decent acts of men. 

Even cutthroat bandits who raid foreign parts — 

and Zeus grants them a healthy share of plunder, 

ships filled to the brim, and back they head for home — 

even their dark hearts are stalked by the dread of vengeance. 

But the suitors know, they've caught some godsent rumor 

of master's grisly death! That's why they have no mind 

to do their courting fairly or go back home in peace. 

No, at their royal ease they devour all his goods, 

those brazen rascals never spare a scrap! 

Not a day or a night goes by, sent down by Zeus, 

but they butcher victims, never stopping at one or two, 

and drain his wine as if there's no tomorrow — 

swilling the last drop . . . 

Believe me, my master's wealth was vast! 

No other prince on earth could match his riches, 

not on the loamy mainland or here at home in Ithaca — 

no twenty men in the world could equal his great treasures! 

Let me count them off for you. A dozen herds of cattle 

back on the mainland, just as many head of sheep, 

as many droves of pigs and goatflocks ranging free; 

hired hands or his own herdsmen keep them grazing there. 

Here in Ithaca, goatflocks, eleven in all, scatter 

to graze the island, out at the wild end, 

and trusty goatherds watch their every move. 

And each herdsman, day after day, it never ends, 



90 



100 



no 



120 



drives in a beast for the suitors — best in sight, 
a sheep or well-fed goat. While I tend to these pigs, 
I guard them, pick the best for those carousers 
and send it to the slaughter!" 

His voice rose 
while the stranger ate his meat and drank his wine, 
ravenous, bolting it all down in silence . . . 
brooding on ways to serve the suitors right. 
But once he'd supped and refreshed himself with food, 
he filled the wooden bowl he'd been drinking from, 
brimmed it with wine and passed it to his host 
who received the offer gladly, spirit cheered 
as the stranger probed him now with winging words: 
"Friend, who was the man who bought you with his goods, 
the master of such vast riches, powerful as you say? 
You tell me he died defending Agamemnon's honor? 
What's his name? I just might know such a man . . . 
Zeus would know, and the other deathless gods, 
if I ever saw him, if I bring you any news. 
I've roamed the whole earth over." 

And the good swineherd answered, foreman of men, 
"Old friend, no wanderer landing here with news of him 
is likely to win his wife and dear son over. 
Random drifters, hungry for bed and board, 
lie through their teeth and swallow back the truth. 
Why, any tramp washed up on Ithaca's shores 
scurries right to my mistress, babbling lies, 
and she ushers him in, kindly, pressing for details, 
and the warm tears of grief come trickling down her cheeks, 
the loyal wife's way when her husband's died abroad. 
Even you, old codger, could rig up some fine tale — 
and soon enough, I'd say, 

if they gave you shirt and clothing for your pains. 
My master? Well, no doubt the dogs and wheeling birds 
have ripped the skin from his ribs by now, his life is through — 
or fish have picked him clean at sea, and the man's bones 



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[136-65] 



[166-97] 



BOOK 14! THE LOYAL SWINEHERD 



307 



lie piled up on the mainland, buried deep in sand . . . 

he's dead and gone. Aye, leaving a broken heart 

for loved ones left behind, for me most of all. 

Never another master kind as he! 

I'll never find one — no matter where I go, 

not even if I went back to mother and father, 

the house where I was born and my parents reared me once. 

Ah, but much as I grieve for them, much as I long 

to lay my eyes on them, set foot on the old soil, 

it's longing for him, him that wrings my heart — 

Odysseus, lost and gone! 

That man, old friend, far away as he is . . . 

I can scarcely bear to say his name aloud, 

so deeply he loved me, cared for me, so deeply. 

Worlds away as he is, I call him Master, Brother!" 

"My friend," the great Odysseus, long in exile, answered, 
"since you are dead certain, since you still insist 
he's never coming back, still the soul of denial, 
I won't simply say it — on my oath I swear 
Odysseus is on his way! 
Reward for such good news? Let me have it 
the moment he sets foot in his own house, 
dress me in shirt and cloak, in handsome clothes. 
Before then, poor as I am, I wouldn't take a thing. 
I hate that man like the very Gates of Death who, 
ground down by poverty, stoops to peddling lies. 
I swear by Zeus, the first of all the gods, 
by this table of hospitality here, my host, 
by Odysseus' hearth where I have come for help: 
all will come to pass, I swear, exactly as I say. 
True, this very month — just as the old moon dies 
and the new moon rises into life — Odysseus will return! 
He will come home and take revenge on any man 
who offends his wedded wife and princely son!" 

"Good news," you replied, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, 



160 



170 



180 



190 



"but I will never pay a reward for that, old friend — 
Odysseus, he'll never come home again. Never . . . 
Drink your wine, sit back, let's talk of other things. 
Don't remind me of all this. The heart inside me 
breaks when anyone mentions my dear master. 
That oath of yours, we'll let it pass — 

Odysseus, 
oh come back! — 

just as I wish, I and Penelope, 
old Laertes too, Telemachus too, the godlike boy. 
How I grieve for him now, I can't stop — Odysseus' son, 
Telemachus. The gods reared him up like a fine young tree 
and I often said, 'In the ranks of men he'll match his father, 
his own dear father — amazing in build and looks, that boy!' 
But all of a sudden a god wrecks his sense of balance — 
god or man, no matter — off he's gone to catch 
some news of his father, down to holy Pylos. 
And now those gallant suitors lie in wait for him, 
sailing home, to tear the royal line of Arcesius 
out of Ithaca, root and branch, good name and all! 
Enough. Let him pass too — whether he's trapped 
or the hand of Zeus will pull him through alive. 

Come, 
old soldier, tell me the story of your troubles, 
tell me truly, too, I'd like to know it well . . . 
Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents? 
What sort of vessel brought you? Why did the sailors 
land you here in Ithaca? Who did they say they are? 
I hardly think you came this way on foot." 

The great teller of tales returned at length, 
"My story — the whole truth — I'm glad to tell it all. 
If only the two of us had food and mellow wine 
to last us long, here in your shelter now, 
for us to sup on, undisturbed, 
while others take the work of the world in hand, 
I could easily spend all year and never reach the end 



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220 



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[197-228] 



[229-61] 



BOOK 14: THE LOYAL SWINEHERD 



309 



of my endless story, all the heartbreaking trials 
I struggled through. The gods willed it so . . . 

I hail from Crete's broad land, I'm proud to say, 
and I am a rich man's son. And many other sons 
he brought up in his palace, born in wedlock, 
sprung of his lawful wife. Unlike my mother. 
She was a slave, a concubine he'd purchased, yes, 
but he treated me on a par with all his true-born sons — 
Castor, Hylax' son. I'm proud to boast his blood, that man 
revered like a god throughout all Crete those days, 
for wealth, power and all his glorious offspring. 
But the deadly spirits soon swept him down 
to the House of Death, and his high and mighty sons 
carved up his lands and then cast lots for the parts 
and gave me just a pittance, a paltry house as well. 
But I won myself a wife from wealthy, landed people, 
thanks to my own strong points. I was no fool 
and never shirked a fight. 

But now my heyday's gone — 
I've had my share of blows. Yet look hard at the husk 
and you'll still see, I think, the grain that gave it life. 
By heaven, Ares gave me courage, Athena too, to break 
the ranks of men wide open, once, in the old days, 
whenever I picked my troops and formed an ambush, 
plotting attacks to spring against our foes — 
no hint of death could daunt my fighting spirit! 
Far out of the front I'd charge and spear my man, 
I'd cut down any enemy soldier backing off. 
Such was I in battle, true, but I had no love 
for working the land, the chores of households either, 
the labor that raises crops of shining children. No, 
it was always oarswept ships that thrilled my heart, 
and wars, and the long polished spears and arrows, 
dreadful gear that makes the next man cringe. 
I loved them all — god planted that love inside me. 
Each man delights in the work that suits him best. 



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250 



260 



Why, long before we Achaeans ever camped at Troy, 
nine commands I led in our deep-sea-going ships, 
raiding foreign men, and a fine haul reached my hands. 
I helped myself to the lion's share and still more 
came by lot. And my house grew by leaps and bounds, 
I walked among the Cretans, honored, feared as well. 

But then, when thundering Zeus contrived that expedition — 
that disaster that brought so many fighters to their knees — 
and men kept pressing me and renowned Idomeneus 
to head a fleet to Troy, 270 

there was no way out, no denying them then, 
the voice of the people bore down much too hard. 
So nine whole years we Achaeans soldiered on at Troy, 
in the tenth we sacked King Priam's city, then embarked 
for home in the long ships, and a god dispersed the fleet. 
Unlucky me. Shrewd old Zeus was plotting still more pain. 
No more than a month I stayed at home, taking joy 
in my children, loyal wife and lovely plunder. 
But a spirit in me urged, 'Set sail for Egypt — 

fit out ships, take crews of seasoned heroes!' 280 

Nine I fitted out, the men joined up at once 
and then six days my shipmates feasted well, 
while I provided a flock of sheep to offer up 
to the gods and keep the feasters' table groaning. 
On the seventh we launched out from the plains of Crete 
with a stiff North Wind fair astern — smooth sailing, 
aye, like coasting on downstream . . . 
And not one craft in our squadron foundered; 
all shipshape, and all hands sound, we sat back 
while the wind and helmsmen kept us true on course. 290 

Five days out and we raised the great river Nile 
and there in the Nile delta moored our ships of war. 
God knows I ordered my trusty crews to stand by, 
just where they were, and guard the anchored fleet 
and I sent a patrol to scout things out from higher ground. 



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[262-95] 



300 



But swept away by their own reckless fury, the crew went berserk — 

they promptly began to plunder the lush Egyptian farms, 

dragged off the women and children, killed the men. 

Outcries reached the city in no time — stirred by shouts 

the entire town came streaming down at the break of day, 

filling the river plain with chariots, ranks of infantry 

and the gleam of bronze. Zeus who loves the lightning 

flung down murderous panic on all my men-at-arms — 

no one dared to stand his ground and fight, 

disaster ringed us round from every quarter. 

Droves of my men they hacked down with swords, 

led off the rest alive, to labor for them as slaves. 

And I? Zeus flashed an inspiration through my mind, 

though I wish I'd died a soldier down in Egypt then! 

A world of pain, you see, still lay in wait for me . . . 310 

Quickly I wrenched the skullcap helmet off my head, 

I tore the shield from my back and dropped my spear 

and ran right into the path of the king's chariot, 

hugged and kissed his knees. He pitied me, spared me, 

hoisted me onto his war-car, took me home in tears. 

Troops of his men came rushing after, shaking javelins, 

mad to kill me — their fighting blood at the boil — 

but their master drove them off. 

He feared the wrath of Zeus, the god of guests, 

the first of the gods to pay back acts of outrage. 

So, 320 

there I lingered for seven years, amassing a fortune 
from all the Egyptian people loading me with gifts. 
Then, at last, when the eighth had come full turn, 
along comes this Phoenician one fine day . . . 
a scoundrel, swindler, an old hand at lies 
who'd already done the world a lot of damage. 
Well, he smoothly talked me round and off we sailed, 
Phoenicia-bound, where his house and holdings lay. 
There in his care I stayed till the year was out. 
Then, when the months and days had run their course 
and the year wheeled round and the seasons came again, 
he conned me aboard his freighter bound for Libya, 



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311 



pretending I'd help him ship a cargo there for sale 

but in fact he'd sell me there and make a killing! 

I suspected as much, of course, but had no choice, 

so I boarded with him, yes, and the ship ran on 

with a good strong North Wind gusting — 

fast on the middle passage clear of Crete — 

but Zeus was brewing mischief for that crew . . . 

Once we'd left the island in our wake — 

no land at all in sight, nothing but sea and sky — 

then Zeus the son of Cronus mounted a thunderhead 

above our hollow ship and the deep went black beneath it. 

Then, then in the same breath Zeus hit the craft 

with a lightning-bolt and thunder. Round she spun, 

reeling under the impact, filled with reeking brimstone, 

shipmates pitching out of her, bobbing round like seahawks 

swept along by the breakers past the trim black hull — 

and the god cut short their journey home forever. 

Not mine. 
Zeus himself — when I was just at the final gasp — 
thrust the huge mast of my dark-prowed vessel 
right into my arms so I might flee disaster 
one more time. Wrapping myself around it, 
I was borne along by the wretched galewinds, 
rushed along nine days — on the tenth, at dead of night, 
a shouldering breaker rolled me up along Thesprotia's beaches. 
There the king of Thesprotia, Phidon, my salvation, 
treated me kindly, asked for no reward at all. 
His own good son had found me, half-dead 
from exhaustion and the cold. He raised me up 
by the hand and led me home to his father's house 
and dressed me in cloak and shirt and decent clothes. 
That's where I first got wind of him — Odysseus . . . 
The king told me he'd hosted the man in style, 
befriended him on his way home to native land, 
and showed me all the treasure Odysseus had amassed. 
Bronze and gold and plenty of hard wrought iron, 
enough to last a man and ten generations of his heirs — 
so great the wealth stored up for him in the king's vaults! 



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[327-57] 



But Odysseus, he made clear, was off at Dodona then 370 

to hear the will of Zeus that rustles forth 

from the god's tall leafy oak: how should he return, 

after all the years away, to his own green land of Ithaca — 

openly or in secret? Phidon swore to me, what's more, 

as the princely man poured out libations in his house, 

The ship's hauled down and the crew set to sail, 

to take Odysseus home to native land.' 

But I . . . 
he shipped me off before. A Thesprotian cutter 
chanced to be heading for Dulichion rich in wheat, 
so he told the crew to take me to the king, Acastus, 380 

treat me kindly, too, but it pleased them more 
to scheme foul play against me, 
sink me into the very depths of pain. As soon 
as the ship was far off land, scudding in mid-sea, 
they sprang their trap — my day of slavery then and there! 
They stripped from my back the shirt and cloak I wore, 
decked me out in a new suit of clothes, all rags, 
ripped and filthy — the rags you see right now. 
But then, once they'd gained the fields of Ithaca, 

still clear in the evening light, they lashed me fast 390 

to the rowing-benches, twisting a cable round me; 
all hands went ashore 

and rushed to catch their supper on the beach. 
But the gods themselves unhitched my knots at once 
with the gods' own ease. I wrapped my head in rags, 
slid down the gangplank polished smooth, slipped my body 
into the water, not a splash, chest-high, then quick, 
launched out with both my arms and swam away — 
out of the surf in no time, clear of the crew. 

I clambered upland, into a flowery, fragrant brush 400 

and crouched there, huddling low. They raised a hue and cry, 
wildly beat the bushes, but when it seemed no use 
to pursue the hunt, back they trudged again and 
boarded their empty ship. 

The gods hid me themselves — 



[358-89] 



BOOK 14: THE LOYAL SWINEHERD 



313 



it's light work for them — and brought me here, 
the homestead of a man who knows the world. 
So it seems to be my lot that I'll live on." 

And you replied, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, 
"So much misery, friend! You've moved my heart, 
deeply, with your long tale . . . such blows, such roving. 410 

But one part's off the mark, I know — you'll never persuade me — 
what you say about Odysseus. A man in your condition, 
who are you, I ask you, to lie for no good reason? 
Well I know the truth of my good lord's return, 
how the gods detested him, with a vengeance — 
never letting him go under, fighting Trojans, 
or die in the arms of loved ones, 
once he'd wound down the long coil of war. 
Then all united Achaea would have raised his tomb 
and he'd have won his son great fame for years to come. 420 

But now the whirlwinds have ripped him away — no fame for him. 
And I live here, cut off from the world, with all my pigs. 
I never go into town unless, perhaps, wise Penelope 
calls me back, when news drops in from nowhere. 
There they crowd the messenger, cross-examine him, 
heartsick for their long-lost lord or all too glad 
to eat him out of house and home, scot-free. 
But I've no love for all that probing, prying, 
not since some Aetolian fooled me with his yarn. 

He'd killed a man, wandered over the face of the earth, 430 

stumbled onto my hut, and I received him warmly. 
He told me he'd seen Odysseus 
lodged with King Idomeneus down in Crete — 
refitting his ships, hard-hit by the gales, 
but he'd be home, he said, by summer or harvest-time, 
his hulls freighted with treasure, manned by fighting crews. 
So you, old misery, seeing a god has led you here to me, 
don't try to charm me now, don't spellbind me with lies! 
Never for that will I respect you, treat you kindly; 
no, it's my fear of Zeus, the god of guests, 440 



314 HOMER: THE ODYSSEY [389-419] 

and because I pity you ..." 

"Good god," the crafty man pressed on, 
"what a dark, suspicious heart you have inside you! 
Not even my oath can win you over, make you see the light. 
Come, strike a bargain — all the gods of Olympus 
witness now our pact! 
If your master returns, here to your house, 
dress me in shirt and cloak and send me off 
to Dulichion at once, the place I long to be. 

But if your master doesn't return as I predict, 450 

set your men on me— fling me off some rocky crag 
so the next beggar here may just think twice 
before he peddles lies." 

"Surely, friend!" — 
the swineherd shook his head — "and just think 
of the praise and fame I'd win among mankind, 
now and for all time to come, if first I took you 
under my roof, I treated you kindly as my guest 
then cut you down and robbed you of your life — 
how keen I'd be to say my prayers to Zeus! 

But it's high time for a meal. 460 

I hope the men will come home any moment 
so we can fix a tasty supper in the lodge." 



As host and guest confided back and forth 
the herdsmen came in, driving their hogs up close, 
penning sows in their proper sties for the night, 
squealing for all they're worth, shut inside their yard, 
and the good swineherd shouted to his men, 
"Bring in your fattest hog! 
I'll slaughter it for our guest from far abroad. 

We'll savor it ourselves. All too long we've sweated 470 

over these white-tusked boars — our wretched labor — 
while others wolf our work down free of charge!" 



Calling out 



as he split up kindling now with a good sharp ax 
and his men hauled in a tusker five years old, 



[419-48] 



BOOK 14: THE LOYAL SWINEHERD 



315 



rippling fat, and stood him steady by the hearth. 

The swineherd, soul of virtue, did not forget the gods. 

He began the rite by plucking tufts from the porker's head, 

threw them into the fire and prayed to all the powers, 

"Bring him home, our wise Odysseus, home at last!" 

Then raising himself full-length, with an oak log 

he'd left unsplit he clubbed and stunned the beast 

and it gasped out its life . . . 

The men slashed its throat, singed the carcass, 

quickly quartered it all, and then the swineherd, 

cutting first strips for the gods from every limb, 

spread them across the thighs, wrapped in sleek fat, 

and sprinkling barley over them, flung them on the fire. 

They sliced the rest into pieces, pierced them with skewers, 

broiled them all to a turn and, pulling them off the spits, 

piled the platters high. The swineherd, standing up 

to share the meat — his sense of fairness perfect — 

carved it all out into seven equal portions. 

One he set aside, lifting up a prayer 

to the forest nymphs and Hermes, Maia's son, 

and the rest he handed on to each man in turn. 

But to Odysseus he presented the boar's long loin 

and the cut of honor cheered his master's heart. 

The man for all occasions thanked his host: 

"I pray, Eumaeus, you'll be as dear to Father Zeus 

as you are to me — a man in my condition — 

you honor me by giving me your best." 

You replied in kind, Eumaeus, swineherd: 
"Eat, my strange new friend . . . enjoy it now, 
it's all we have to offer. As for Father Zeus, 
one thing he will give and another he'll hold back, 
whatever his pleasure. All things are in his power." 

He burned choice parts for the gods who never die 
and pouring glistening wine in a full libation, 
placed the cup in his guest's hands — Odysseus, 
raider of cities — and down he sat to his own share. 



480 



490 



500 



510 



316 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[449-82] 



Mesaulius served them bread, a man the swineherd 
purchased for himself in his master's absence — 
alone, apart from his queen or old Laertes — 
bought him from Taphians, bartered his own goods. 
They reached out for the spread that lay at hand 
and when they'd put aside desire for food and drink, 
Mesaulius cleared the things away. And now, content 
with bread and meat, they made for bed at once. 

A foul night came on — the dark of the moon — and Zeus 
rained from dusk to dawn and a sodden West Wind raged. 520 

Odysseus spoke up now, keen to test the swineherd. 
Would he take his cloak off, hand it to his guest 
or at least tell one of his men to do the same? 
He cared for the stranger so, who ventured now, 
"Listen, Eumaeus, and all you comrades here, 
allow me to sing my praises for a moment. 
Say it's the wine that leads me on, the wild wine 
that sets the wisest man to sing at the top of his lungs, 
laugh like a fool — it drives the man to dancing ... it even 
tempts him to blurt out stories better never told. 530 

But now that I'm sounding off, I can't hold back. 
Oh make me young again, and the strength inside me 
steady as a rock! Just as I was that day 
we sprang a sudden ambush against the Trojans. 
Odysseus led the raid with Atreus' son Menelaus. 
I was third in command — they'd chosen me themselves. 
Once we'd edged up under the city's steep ramparts, 
crowding the walls but sinking into the thick brake, 
the reeds and marshy flats, huddling under our armor 
there we lay, and a foul night came on, the North Wind struck, 540 

freezing cold, and down from the skies the snow fell like frost, 
packed hard — the rims of our shields armored round with ice. 
There all the rest of the men wore shirts and cloaks and, 
hunching shields over their shoulders, slept at ease. 
Not I. I'd left my cloak at camp when I set out — 
idiot — never thinking it might turn cold, 
so I joined in with just the shield on my back 



[482-516] 



BOOK 141 THE LOYAL SWINEHERD 



317 



and a shining waist-guard . . . But then at last, 

the night's third watch, the stars just wheeling down— 

I muttered into his ear, Odysseus, right beside me, 

nudging him with an elbow — he perked up at once — 

'Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, full of tactics, 

I'm not long for the living. The cold will do me in. 

See, I've got no cloak. Some spirit's fooled me — 

I came out half-dressed. Now there's no escape!' 

I hadn't finished — a thought flashed in his mind; 

no one could touch the man at plots or battles. 

'Shhh!' he hissed back — Odysseus had a plan — 

'One of our fighters over there might hear you.' 

Then he propped his head on his forearm, calling out, 

'Friends, wake up. I slept and a god sent down a dream. 

It warned that we're too far from the ships, exposed. 

Go, someone, tell Agamemnon, our field marshal — 

he might rush reinforcements from the beach.' 

Thoas, son of Andraemon, sprang up at once, 

flung off his purple cloak and ran to the ships 

while I, bundling into his wrap, was glad at heart 

till Dawn rose on her golden throne once more. 

Oh make me young again 

and the strength inside me steady as a rock! 

One of the swineherds here would lend a wrap, 

for love of a good soldier, respect as well. 

Now they spurn me, dressed in filthy rags." 

And you replied, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, 
"Now that was a fine yarn you told, old-timer, 
not without point, not without profit either. 
You won't want for clothes or whatever else 
is due a worn-out traveler come for help — 
not for tonight at least. Tomorrow morning 
you'll have to flap around in rags again. 
Here we've got no store of shirts and cloaks, 
no changes. Just one wrap per man, that's all. 
But just you wait till Odysseus' dear son comes back — 
that boy will deck you out in a cloak and shirt 



550 



560 



570 



580 



318 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[517-33] 



and send you off, wherever your heart desires!" 



BOOK FIFTEEN 



With that 



he rose to his feet, laid out a bed by the fire, 
throwing over it skins of sheep and goats and 
down Odysseus lay. Eumaeus flung on his guest 
the heavy flaring cloak he kept in reserve 
to wear when winter brought some wild storm. 

So here 
Odysseus slept and the young hands slept beside him. 
Not the swineherd. Not his style to bed indoors, 
apart from his pigs. He geared up to go outside 
and it warmed Odysseus' heart, 
Eumaeus cared so much for his absent master's goods. 
First, over his broad shoulders he slung a whetted sword, 
wrapped himself in a cloak stitched tight to block the wind, 
and adding a cape, the pelt of a shaggy well-fed goat, 
he took a good sharp lance to fight off men and dogs. 
Then out he went to sleep where his white-tusked boars 
had settled down for the night . . . just under 
a jutting crag that broke the North Wind's blast. 



590 



600 




The Prince Sets Sail 
for Home 



JNow south through the spacious dancing-rings of Lacedaemon 

Athena went to remind the hero's princely son 

of his journey home and spur him on his way. 

She found him there with Nestor's gallant son, 

bedded down in the porch of illustrious Menelaus— 

Pisistratus, at least, overcome with deep sound sleep, 

but not Telemachus. Welcome sleep could not hold him. 

All through the godsent night he lay awake . . . 

tossing with anxious thoughts about his father. 

Hovering over him, eyes ablaze, Athena said, 

"It's wrong, Telemachus, wrong to rove so far, 

so long from home, leaving your own holdings 

unprotected — crowds in your palace so brazen 

they'll carve up all your wealth, devour it all, 

and then your journey here will come to nothing. 



10 



319 



320 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[14-45] 



[46-78] 



BOOK 15: THE PRINCE SETS SAIL FOR HOME 



321 



Quickly, press Menelaus, lord of the warcry, 
to speed you home at once, if you want to find 
your irreproachable mother still inside your house. 
Even now her father and brothers urge Penelope 
to marry Eurymachus, who excels all other suitors 
at giving gifts and drives the bride-price higher. 
She must not carry anything off against your will! 
You know how the heart of a woman always works: 
she likes to build the wealth of her new groom — 
of the sons she bore, of her dear, departed husband, 
not a memory of the dead, no questions asked. 
So sail for home, I say! 

With your own hands turn over all your goods 
to the one serving-woman you can trust the most, 
till the gods bring to light your own noble bride. 

And another thing. Take it to heart, I tell you. 
Picked men of the suitors lie in ambush, grim-set 
in the straits between Ithaca and rocky Same, 
poised to kill you before you can reach home, 
but I have my doubts they will. Sooner the earth 
will swallow down a few of those young gallants 
who eat you out of house and home these days! 
Just give the channel islands a wide berth, 
push on in your trim ship, sail night and day, 
and the deathless god who guards and pulls you through 
will send you a fresh fair wind from hard astern. 
At your first landfall, Ithaca's outer banks, 
speed ship and shipmates round to the city side. 
But you — you make your way to the swineherd first, 
in charge of your pigs, and true to you as always. 
Sleep the night there, send him to town at once 
to tell the news to your mother, wise Penelope — 
you've made it back from Pylos safe and sound." 

Mission accomplished, back she went to Olympus' heights 
as Telemachus woke Nestor's son from his sweet sleep; 
he dug a heel in his ribs and roused him briskly: 



20 



30 



40 



50 



"Up, Pisistratus. Hitch the team to the chariot — 
let's head for home at once!" 

"No, Telemachus," 
Nestor's son objected, "much as we long to go, 
we cannot drive a team in the dead of night. 
Morning will soon be here. So wait, I say, 
wait till he loads our chariot down with gifts — 
the hero Atrides, Menelaus, the great spearman — 
and gives us warm salutes and sees us off like princes. 
That's the man a guest will remember all his days: 
the lavish host who showers him with kindness." 

At those words Dawn rose on her golden throne 
and Menelaus, lord of the warcry, rising up from bed 
by the side of Helen with her loose and lovely hair, 
walked toward his guests. As soon as he saw him, 
Telemachus rushed to pull a shimmering tunic on, 
over his broad shoulders threw his flaring cape 
and the young prince, son of King Odysseus, 
strode out to meet his host: "Menelaus, 
royal son of Atreus, captain of armies, 
let me go back to my own country now. 
The heart inside me longs for home at last." 

The lord of the warcry reassured the prince, 
"I'd never detain you here too long, Telemachus, 
not if your heart is set on going home. 
I'd find fault with another host, I'm sure, 
too warm to his guests, too pressing or too cold. 
Balance is best in all things. It's bad either way, 
spurring the stranger home who wants to linger, 
holding the one who longs to leave — you know, 
'Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest!' 
But wait till I load your chariot down with gifts — 
fine ones, too, you'll see with your own eyes — 
and tell the maids to serve a meal at hall. 
We have god's plenty here. 
It's honor and glory to us, a help to you as well, 



60 



70 



80 



322 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[79-111] 



[111-43] 



BOOK 15: THE PRINCE SETS SAIL FOR HOME 



323 



if you dine in style first, then leave to see the world. 
And if you're keen for the grand tour of all Hellas, 
right to the depths of Argos, I'll escort you myself, 
harness the horses, guide you through the towns. 
And no host will turn us away with empty hands, 
each will give us at least one gift to prize — 
a handsome tripod, cauldron forged in bronze, 
a brace of mules or a solid golden cup." 

Firmly resolved, Telemachus replied, 
"Menelaus, royal Atrides, captain of armies, 
I must go back to my own home at once. 
When I started out I left no one behind 
to guard my own possessions. God forbid, 
searching for my great father, I lose my life 
or lose some priceless treasure from my house!" 

As soon as the lord of the warcry heard that, 
he told his wife and serving-women to lay out a meal 
in the hall at once. They'd stores aplenty there. 
Eteoneus, son of Boethous, came to join them — 
fresh from bed, he lived close by the palace. 
The warlord Menelaus told him to build a fire 
and broil some meat. He quickly did his bidding. 
Down Atrides walked to a storeroom filled with scent, 
and not alone: Helen and Megapenthes went along. 
Reaching the spot where all the heirlooms lay, 
Menelaus chose a generous two-handled cup; 
he told his son Megapenthes to take a mixing-bowl, 
solid silver, while Helen lingered beside the chests, 
and there they were, brocaded, beautiful robes 
her own hands had woven. Queenly Helen, 
radiance of women, lifted one from the lot, 
the largest, loveliest robe, and richly worked 
and like a star it glistened, deep beneath the others. 
Then all three went up and on through the halls until 
they found Telemachus. The red-haired king spoke out: 
"Oh my boy, may Zeus the Thunderer, Hera's lord, 



90 



100 



110 



120 



grant you the journey home your heart desires! 
Of all the treasures lying heaped in my palace 
you shall have the finest, most esteemed. Look, 
I'll give you this mixing-bowl, forged to perfection — 
it's solid silver finished off with a lip of gold. 
Hephaestus made it himself. And a royal friend, 
Phaedimus, king of Sidon, lavished it on me 
when his palace welcomed me on passage home. 
How pleased I'd be if you took it as a gift!" 

And the warlord placed the two-eared cup 
in his hands while stalwart Megapenthes carried in 
the glittering silver bowl and set it down before him. 
Helen, her cheeks flushed with beauty, moved beside him, 
holding the robe in her arms, and offered, warmly, 
"Here, dear boy, I too have a gift to give you, 
a keepsake of Helen — I wove it with my hands — 
for your own bride to wear 
when the blissful day of marriage dawns . . . 
Until then, let it rest in your mother's room. 
And may you return in joy — my parting wish — 
to your own grand house, your native land at last." 

With that 
she laid the robe in his arms, and he received it gladly. 
Prince Pisistratus, taking the gifts, stowed them deep 
in the chariot cradle, viewed them all with wonder. 
The red-haired warlord led them back to his house 
and the guests took seats on low and high-backed chairs. 
A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher 
and over a silver basin tipped it out 
so they might rinse their hands, 
then pulled a gleaming table to their side. 
A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve them, 
appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. 
Ready Eteoneus carved and passed the meat, 
the son of illustrious Menelaus poured their wine. 
They reached out for the good things that lay at hand 
and once they'd put aside desire for food and drink, 



130 



140 



150 



324 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[144-73] 



Prince Telemachus and the gallant son of Nestor 

yoked their team, mounted the blazoned car 

and drove through the gates and echoing colonnade. 

The red-haired King Menelaus followed both boys out, 

his right hand holding a golden cup of honeyed wine 

so the two might pour libations forth at parting. 

Just in front of the straining team he strode, 

lifting his cup and pledging both his guests: 

"Farewell, my princes! Give my warm greetings 

to Nestor, the great commander, 

always kind to me as a father, long ago 

when we young men of Achaea fought at Troy." 



160 



170 



And tactful Telemachus replied at once, 
"Surely, my royal host, we'll tell him all, 
as soon as we reach old Nestor — all you say. 
I wish I were just as sure I'd find Odysseus 
waiting there at home when I reach Ithaca. 
I'd tell him I come from you, 
treated with so much kindness at your hands, 
loaded down with all these priceless gifts!" 



180 



At his last words a bird flew past on the right, 
an eagle clutching a huge white goose in its talons, 
plucked from the household yards. And all rushed after, 
shouting, men and women, and swooping toward the chariot now 
the bird veered off to the right again before the horses. 
All looked up, overjoyed — people's spirits lifted. 
Nestor's son Pisistratus spoke out first: 
"Look there! King Menelaus, captain of armies, 
what, did the god send down that sign for you 
or the two of us?" 

The warlord fell to thinking — 
how to read the omen rightly, how to reply? . . . 

But long-robed Helen stepped in well before him: 190 

"Listen to me and I will be your prophet, 
sure as the gods have flashed it in my mind 
and it will come to pass, I know it will. 



[174-203] 



BOOK 15: THE PRINCE SETS SAIL FOR HOME 



325 



Just as the eagle swooped down from the crags 
where it was born and bred, just as it snatched 
that goose fattened up for the kill inside the house, 
so, after many trials and roving long and hard, 
Odysseus will descend on his house and take revenge— 
unless he's home already, sowing seeds of ruin 
for that whole crowd of suitors!" 

"Oh if only," 
pensive Telemachus burst out in thanks to Helen, 
"Zeus the thundering lord of Hera makes it so- 
even at home I'll pray to you as a deathless goddess!" 

He cracked the lash and the horses broke quickly, 
careering through the city out into open country, 
shaking the yoke across their shoulders all day long. 

The sun sank and the roads of the world grew dark 
as they reached Phera, pulling up to Diodes' halls, 
the son of Ortilochus, son of the Alpheus River. 
He gave them a royal welcome; there they slept the night. 

When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 
they yoked their pair again, mounted the blazoned car 
and out through the gates and echoing colonnade 
they whipped the team to a run and on they flew, 
holding nothing back, approaching Pylos soon, 
the craggy citadel. That was when Telemachus 
turned to Pisistratus, saying, "Son of Nestor, 
won't you do as I ask you, see it through? 
We're friends for all our days now, so we claim, 
thanks to our fathers' friendship. We're the same age as well 
and this tour of ours has made us more like brothers. 
Prince, don't drive me past my vessel, drop me there. 
Your father's old, in love with his hospitality; 
I fear he'll hold me, chafing in his palace — 
I must hurry home!" 

The son of Nestor pondered . . . 
how to do it properly, see it through? 



200 



210 



220 



326 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[204-35] 



Pausing a moment, then this way seemed best. 

Swerving his team, he drove down to the ship 

tied up on shore and loaded into her stern 

the splendid gifts, the robes and gold Menelaus gave, 230 

and sped his friend with a flight of winging words: 

"Climb aboard now — fast! Muster all your men 

before I get home and break the news to father. 

With that man's overbearing spirit — I know it, 

know it all too well — he'll never let you go, 

he'll come down here and summon you himself. 

He won't return without you, believe me; 

in any case he'll fly into a rage." 

With that warning he whipped his sleek horses 
back to Pylos city and reached his house in no time. 240 

Telemachus shouted out commands to all his shipmates: 
"Stow our gear, my comrades, deep in the holds 
and board at once — we must be on our way!" 

His shipmates snapped to orders, 
swung aboard and sat to the oars in ranks. 
But just as Telemachus prepared to launch, 
praying, sacrificing to Pallas by the stern, 
a man from a far-off country came toward him now, 
a fugitive out of Argos: he had killed a man . . . 

He was a prophet, sprung of Melampus' line of seers, 250 

Melampus who lived in Pylos, mother of flocks, some years ago, 
rich among his Pylians, at home in his great high house 
until he was made to go abroad to foreign parts, 
fleeing his native land and hot-blooded Neleus — 
most imperious man alive — who'd commandeered 
his vast estate and held it down by force 
for one entire year. That year Melampus, 
bound by cruel chains in the halls of Phylacus, 
suffered agonies — all for Neleus' daughter Pero, 

that and the mad spell a Fury, murderous spirit, 260 

cast upon his mind. But the seer worked free of death 



[235-66] 



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327 



and drove the lusty, bellowing cattle out of Phylace, 

back to Pylos. There he avenged himself on Neleus 

for the shameful thing the king had done to him, 

and escorted Pero home as his brother's bride. 

But he himself went off to a distant country, 

Argos, land of stallions — his destined home 

where he would live and rule the Argive nation. 

Here he married a wife and built a high-roofed house 

and sired Antiphates and Mantius, two staunch sons. 

Antiphates fathered Oicles, gallant heart, 

Oicles fathered Amphiaraus, driver of armies, 

whom storming Zeus and Apollo loved intensely, 

showering him with every form of kindness. 

But he never reached the threshold of old age, 

he died at Thebes — undone by a bribe his wife accepted — 

leaving behind his two sons, Alcmaeon and Amphilochus. 

On his side Mantius sired Polyphides and Clitus both 

but Dawn of the golden throne whisked Clitus away, 

overwhelmed by his beauty, 

so the boy would live among the deathless gods. 

Yet Apollo made magnanimous Polyphides a prophet — 

after Amphiaraus' death — the greatest seer on earth. 

But a feud with his father drove him off to Hyperesia 

where he made his home and prophesied to the world . . . 

This prophet's son it was — Theoclymenus his name — 
who approached Telemachus now and found him pouring 
wine to a god and saying prayers beside his ship. 
"Friend," he said in a winging supplication, 
"since I find you burning offerings here, 
I beg you by these rites and the god you pray to, 
then by your own life and the lives of all the men 
who travel with you — tell me truly, don't hold back, 
who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents?" 

"Of course, stranger," the forthright prince responded, 
"I will tell you everything, clearly as I can. 



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290 



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homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[267-98] 



Ithaca is my country. Odysseus is my father — 

there was a man, or was he all a dream? . . . 

but he's surely died a wretched death by now. 

Yet here I've come with my crew and black ship, 300 

out for news of my father, lost and gone so long." 

And the godlike seer Theoclymenus replied, 
"Just like you, I too have left my land — 
I because I killed a man of my own tribe. 
But he has many brothers and kin in Argos, 
stallion-land, who rule the plains in force. 
Fleeing death at their hands, a dismal fate, 
I am a fugitive now, 

doomed to wander across this mortal world. 

So take me aboard, hear a fugitive's prayer: 310 

don't let them kill me — they're after me, well I know!" 

"So desperate!" thoughtful Telemachus exclaimed. 
"How could I drive you from my ship? Come sail with us, 
we'll tend you at home, with all we can provide." 

And he took the prophet's honed bronze spear, 
laid it down full-length on the rolling deck, 
swung aboard the deep-sea craft himself, 
assuming the pilot's seat reserved astern 
and put the seer beside him. Cables cast off, 

Telemachus shouted out commands to all his shipmates: 320 

"All lay hands to tackle!" They sprang to orders, 
hoisting the pinewood mast, they stepped it firm 
in its block amidships, lashed it fast with stays 
and with braided rawhide halyards hauled the white sail high. 
Now bright-eyed Athena sent them a stiff following wind 
blustering out of a clear sky, gusting on so the ship 
might run its course through the salt sea at top speed — 
and past the Springs she raced and the Chalcis' rushing stream 
as the sun sank and the roads of the world grew dark and 
on she pressed for Pheae, driven on by a wind from Zeus 330 

and flew past lovely Elis, where Epeans rule in power, 



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and then Telemachus veered for the Jagged Islands, 

wondering all the way — 

would he sweep clear of death or be cut down? 

The king and loyal swineherd, just that night, 
were supping with other fieldhands in the lodge. 
Once they'd put aside desire for food and drink, 
Odysseus spoke up, eager to test the swineherd, 
see if he'd stretch out his warm welcome now, 
invite him to stay on in the farmstead here 
or send him off to town. "Listen, Eumaeus, 
all you comrades here — at the crack of dawn 
I mean to go to town and do my begging, 
not be a drain on you and all your men. 
But advise me well, give me a trusty guide 
to see me there. And then I'm on my own 
to roam the streets — I must, I have no choice — 
hoping to find a handout, just a crust or cupful. 
I'd really like to go to the house of King Odysseus 
and give my news to his cautious queen, Penelope. 
Why, I'd even mix with those overweening suitors — 
would they spare me a plateful? Look at all they have! 
I'd do good work for them, promptly, anything they want. 
Let me tell you, listen closely, catch my drift . . . 
Thanks to Hermes the guide, who gives all work 
of our hands the grace and fame that it deserves, 
no one alive can match me at household chores: 
building a good fire, splitting kindling neatly, 
carving, roasting meat and pouring rounds of wine . . . 
anything menials do to serve their noble masters." 

"God's sake, my friend!" you broke in now, 
Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, deeply troubled. 
"What's got into your head, what crazy plan? 
You must be hell-bent on destruction, on the spot, 
if you're keen to mingle with that mob of suitors — 
their pride and violence hit the iron skies! 
They're a far cry from you, 



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the men who do their bidding. Young bucks, 
all rigged out in their fine robes and shirts, 
hair sleeked down with oil, faces always beaming, 
the ones who slave for them! The tables polished, 
sagging under the bread and meat and wine. 
No, stay here. No one finds you a burden, 
surely not I, not any comrade here. 
You wait till Odysseus' dear son comes back — 
that boy will deck you out in a cloak and shirt 
and send you off, wherever your heart desires!" 

"If only, Eumaeus," the wayworn exile said, 
"you were as dear to Father Zeus as you are to me! 
You who stopped my pain, my endless, homesick roving. 
Tramping about the world — there's nothing worse for a man. 
But the fact is that men put up with misery 
to stuff their cursed bellies. 
But seeing you hold me here, urging me now 
to wait for him, the prince who's on his way, 
tell me about the mother of King Odysseus, please, 
the father he left as well — on the threshold of old age — 
when he sailed off to war. Are they still alive, 
perhaps, still looking into the light of day? 
Or dead by now, and down in Death's long house?" 

"Friend, 
the swineherd, foreman of men, assured his guest, 
"I'll tell you the whole story, point by point. 
Laertes is still alive, but night and day 
he prays to Zeus, waiting there in his house, 
for the life breath to slip away and leave his body. 
His heart's so racked for his son, lost and gone these years, 
for his wife so fine, so wise — her death is the worst blow 
he's had to suffer — it made him old before his time. 
She died of grief for her boy, her glorious boy, 
it wore her down, a wretched way to go. 
I pray that no one I love dies such a death, 
no island neighbor of mine who treats me kindly! 
While she was still alive, heartsick as she was, 



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it always moved me to ask about her, learn the news. 

She'd reared me herself, and right beside her daughter, 

Ctimene, graceful girl with her long light gown, 

the youngest one she'd borne . . . 

Just the two of us, growing up together, 

the woman tending me almost like her child, 

till we both reached the lovely flush of youth 

and then her parents gave her away in marriage, yes, 

to a Samian man, and a haul of gifts they got. 

But her mother decked me out in cloak and shirt, 

good clothing she wrapped about me — gave me sandals, 

sent me here, this farm. She loved me from the heart. 

Oh how I miss her kindness now! The happy gods 

speed the work that I labor at, that gives me 

food and drink to spare for the ones I value. 

But from Queen Penelope I never get a thing, 

never a winning word, no friendly gesture, 

not since this, this plague has hit the house — 

these high and mighty suitors. Servants miss it, 

terribly, gossiping back and forth with the mistress, 

gathering scraps of news, a snack and a cup or two, 

then taking home to the fields some little gift. 

It never fails to cheer a servant's heart." 

"Imagine that," his canny master said, 
"you must have been just a little fellow, Eumaeus, 
when you were swept so far from home and parents. 
Come, tell me the whole story, truly too. 
Was your city sacked? — 
some city filled with people and wide streets 
where your father and your mother made their home? 
Or were you all alone, herding your sheep and cattle, 
when pirates kidnapped, shipped and sold you off 
to this man's house, who paid a healthy price?" 

"My friend," the swineherd answered, foreman of men, 
"you really want my story? So many questions — well, 
listen in quiet, then, and take your ease, sit back 



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[392-423] 



and drink your wine. The nights are endless now. 440 

We've plenty of time to sleep or savor a long tale. 

No need, you know, to turn in before the hour. 

Even too much sleep can be a bore. 

But anyone else who feels the urge 

can go to bed and then, at the crack of dawn, 

break bread, turn out and tend our master's pigs. 

We two will keep to the shelter here, eat and drink 

and take some joy in each other's heartbreaking sorrows, 

sharing each other's memories. Over the years, you know, 

a man finds solace even in old sorrows, true, a man 450 

who's weathered many blows and wandered many miles. 

My own story? This will answer all your questions . . . 

There's an island, Syrie — you may have heard of it — 
off above Ortygia, where the sun wheels around. 
Not so packed with people, still a good place, though, 
fine for sheep and cattle, rich in wine and wheat. 
Hunger never attacks the land, no sickness either, 
that always stalks the lives of us poor men. 
No, as each generation grows old on the island, 

down Apollo comes with his silver bow, with Artemis, 460 

and they shoot them all to death with gentle arrows. 
Two cities there are, that split the land in half, 
and over them both my father ruled in force — 
Ormenus' son Ctesius, a man like a deathless god. 

One day 
a band of Phoenicians landed there. The famous sea-dogs, 
sharp bargainers too, the holds of their black ship 
brimful with a hoard of flashy baubles. Now, 
my father kept a Phoenician woman in his house, 
beautiful, tall and skilled at weaving lovely things, 

and her rascal countrymen lusted to seduce her, yes, 470 

and lost no time — she was washing clothes when one of them 
waylaid her beside their ship, in a long deep embrace 
that can break a woman's will, even the best alive. 
And then he asked her questions . . . 
her name, who was she, where did she come from? 



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She waved at once to my father's high-roofed house — 

'But I'm proud to hail from Sidon paved in bronze,' she said, 

'and Arybas was my father, a man who rolled in wealth. 

I was heading home from the fields when Taphian pirates 

snatched me away, and they shipped and sold me here 480 

to this man's house. He paid a good stiff price!' 

The sailor, her secret lover, lured her on: 
'Well then, why don't you sail back home with us? — 
see your own high house, your father and mother there. 
They're still alive, and people say they're rich!' 

'Now there's a tempting offer,' she said in haste, 
'if only you sailors here would swear an oath 
you'll land me safe at home without a scratch.' 

Those were her terms, and once they vowed to keep them, 
swore their oaths they'd never do her harm, 490 

the woman hatched a plan: 'Now mum's the word! 
Let none of your shipmates say a thing to me, 
meeting me on the street or at the springs. 
Someone might go running off to the house 
and tell the old king — he'd think the worst, 
clap me in cruel chains and find a way to kill you. 
So keep it a secret, down deep, get on with buying 
your home cargo, quickly. But once your holds 
are loaded up with goods, then fast as you can 

you send the word to me over there at the palace. 500 

I'll bring you all the gold I can lay my hands on, 
and something else I'll give you in the bargain, 
fare for passage home . . . 

I'm nurse to my master's son in the palace now — 
such a precious toddler, scampering round outside, 
always at my heels. I'll bring him aboard as well. 
Wherever you sell him off, whatever foreign parts, 
he'll fetch you quite a price!' 

Bargain struck, 
back the woman went to our lofty halls 



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and the rovers stayed on with us one whole year, 
bartering, piling up big hoards in their hollow ship, 
and once their holds were loaded full for sailing 
they sent a messenger, fast, to alert the woman. 
This crafty bandit came to my father's house, 
dangling a golden choker linked with amber beads, 
and while the maids at hall and my noble mother 
kept on fondling it — dazzled, feasting their eyes 
and making bids — he gave a quiet nod to my nurse, 
he gave her the nod and slunk back to his ship. 
Grabbing my hand, she swept me through the house 
and there in the porch she came on cups and tables 
left by the latest feasters, father's men of council 
just gone off to the meeting grounds for full debate — 
and quick as a flash she snatched up three goblets, 
tucked them into her bosom, whisked them off 
and I tagged along, lost in all my innocence! 
The sun sank, the roads of the world grew dark 
and both on the run, we reached the bay at once 
where the swift Phoenician ship lay set to sail. 
Handing us up on board, the crewmen launched out 
on the foaming lanes and Zeus sent wind astern. 
Six whole days we sailed, six nights, nonstop, 
and then, when the god brought on the seventh day, 
Artemis showering arrows came and shot the woman- 
headfirst into the bilge she splashed like a diving tern 
and the crewmen heaved her body over, a nice treat 
for the seals and fish, but left me all alone, 
cowering, sick at heart . . . 

Until, at last, 
the wind and current bore us on to Ithaca, 
here where Laertes bought me with his wealth. 
And so I first laid eyes on this good land." 

And royal King Odysseus answered warmly, 
"Eumaeus, so much misery! You've moved my heart, 
deeply, with your long tale — such pain, such sorrow. 
True, but look at the good fortune Zeus sends you, 



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hand-in-hand with the bad. After all your toil 

you reached the house of a decent, kindly man 

who gives you all you need in meat and drink — 

he's seen to that, I'd say — 

it's a fine life you lead! Better than mine . . . 

I've been drifting through cities up and down the earth 

and now I've landed here." 

So guest and host 
confided through the night until they slept, 
a little at least, not long. 
Dawn soon rose and took her golden throne. 

That hour 
Telemachus and his shipmates raised the coasts of home, 
they struck sail and lowered the mast, smartly, 
rowed her into a mooring under oars. 
Out went the bow-stones, cables fast astern, 
the crew themselves swung out in the breaking surf, 
they got a meal together and mixed some ruddy wine. 
And once they'd put aside desire for food and drink, 
clear-headed Telemachus gave the men commands: 
"Pull our black ship round to the city now — 
I'm off to my herdsmen and my farms. By nightfall, 
once I've seen to my holdings, I'll be down in town. 
In the morning I'll give you wages for the voyage, 
a handsome feast of meat and hearty wine." 

The seer Theoclymenus broke in quickly, 
"Where shall I go, dear boy? Of all the lords 
in rocky Ithaca, whose house shall I head for now? 
Or do I go straight to your mother's house and yours?" 

"Surely in better times," discreet Telemachus replied, 
"I would invite you home. Our hospitality never fails, 
but now, I fear, it could only serve you poorly. 
I'll be away, and mother would never see you. 
She rarely appears these days, 
what with those suitors milling in the hall; 
she keeps to her upper story, weaving at her loom. 



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But I'll mention someone else you might just visit: 
Eurymachus, wise Polybus' fine, upstanding son. 
He's the man of the hour! Our island people 
look on him like a god — the prince of suitors, 
hottest to wed my mother, seize my father's powers. 
But god knows — Zeus up there in his bright Olympus — 
whether or not before that wedding day arrives 
he'll bring the day of death on all their heads!" 

At his last words a bird flew past on the right, 
a hawk, Apollo's wind-swift herald — tight in his claws 
a struggling dove, and he ripped its feathers out 
and they drifted down to earth between the ship 
and the young prince himself . . . 
The prophet called him aside, clear of his men, 
and grasped his hand, exclaiming, "Look, Telemachus, 
the will of god just winged that bird on your right! 
Why, the moment I saw it, here before my eyes, 
I knew it was a sign. No line more kingly than yours 
in all of Ithaca — yours will reign forever!" 

"If only, friend, 
alert Telemachus answered, "all you say comes true! 
You'd soon know my affection, know my gifts. 
Any man you meet would call you blest." 



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they swung aboard and sat to the oars in ranks. 

Telemachus fastened rawhide sandals on his feet 

and took from the decks his rugged bronze-tipped spear. 

The men cast off, pushed out and pulled for town 

as Telemachus ordered, King Odysseus' son. 

The prince strode out briskly, 

legs speeding him on till he reached the farm 

where his great droves of pigs crowded their pens 

and the loyal swineherd often slept beside them, 

always the man to serve his masters well. 



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He turned to a trusted friend and said, "Piraeus, 
son of Clytius, you are the one who's done my bidding, 
more than all other friends who sailed with me to Pylos. 
Please, take this guest of mine to your own house, 
treat him kindly, host him with all good will 
till I can come myself." 

"Of course, Telemachus," 
Piraeus the gallant spearman offered warmly: 
"Stay up-country just as long as you like. 
I'll tend the man, he'll never lack a lodging." 



610 



Piraeus boarded ship and told the crew 
to embark at once and cast off cables quickly- 



BOOK SIXTEEN 




Father and Son 



A, 



lS dawn came into the lodge, the king and loyal swineherd 
set out breakfast, once they had raked the fire up 
and got the herdsmen off with droves of pigs. 
And now Telemachus . . . 

the howling dogs went nuzzling up around him, 
not a growl as he approached. From inside 
Odysseus noticed the pack's quiet welcome, 
noticed the light tread of footsteps too 
and turned to Eumaeus quickly, winged a word: 
"Eumaeus, here comes a friend of yours, I'd say. 
Someone you know, at least. The pack's not barking, 
must be fawning around him. I can hear his footfall." 



10 



The words were still on his lips when his own son 
stood in the doorway, there. The swineherd started up, 



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amazed, he dropped the bowls with a clatter — he'd been busy 

mixing ruddy wine. Straight to the prince he rushed 

and kissed his face and kissed his shining eyes, 

both hands, as the tears rolled down his cheeks. 

As a father, brimming with love, welcomes home 

his darling only son in a warm embrace — 20 

what pain he's borne for him and him alone! — 

home now, in the tenth year from far abroad, 

so the loyal swineherd hugged the beaming prince, 

he clung for dear life, covering him with kisses, yes, 

like one escaped from death. Eumaeus wept and sobbed, 

his words flew from the heart: "You're home, Telemachus, 

sweet light of my eyes! I never thought I'd see you again, 

once you'd shipped to Pylos! Quick, dear boy, come in, 

let me look at you, look to my heart's content — 

under my own roof, the rover home at last. 30 

You rarely visit the farm and men these days, 

always keeping to town, as if it cheered you 

to see them there, that infernal crowd of suitors!" 



"Have it your way," thoughtful Telemachus replied. 
"Dear old man, it's all for you that I've come, 
to see you for myself and learn the news — 
whether mother still holds out in the halls 
or some other man has married her at last, 
and Odysseus' bed, I suppose, is lying empty, 
blanketed now with filthy cobwebs." 

"Surely," 
the foreman of men responded, "she's still waiting 
there in your halls, poor woman, suffering so, 
her life an endless hardship . . . 
wasting away the nights, weeping away the days." 

With that 
he took the bronze spear from the boy, and Telemachus, 
crossing the stone doorsill, went inside the lodge. 
As he approached, his father, Odysseus, rose 
to yield his seat, but the son on his part 
waved him back: "Stay where you are, stranger. 



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I know we can find another seat somewhere, 50 

here on our farm, and here's the man to fetch it." 

So Odysseus, moving back, sat down once more, 
and now for the prince the swineherd strewed a bundle 
of fresh green brushwood, topped it off with sheepskin 
and there the true son of Odysseus took his place. 
Eumaeus set before them platters of roast meat, 
left from the meal he'd had the day before; 
he promptly served them bread, heaped in baskets, 
mixed their hearty wine in a wooden bowl 

and then sat down himself to face the king. 60 

They reached for the good things that lay at hand, 
and when they'd put aside desire for food and drink 
Telemachus asked his loyal serving-man at last, 
"Old friend, where does this stranger come from? 
Why did the sailors land him here in Ithaca? 
Who did they say they are? 
I hardly think he came this way on foot." 

You answered him, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, 
"Here, my boy, I'll tell you the whole true story. 

He hails from Crete's broad land, he's proud to say, 70 

but he claims he's drifted round through countless towns of men, 
roaming the earth ... so a god's spun out his fate. 
He just now broke away from some Thesprotian ship 
and came to my farm. I'll put him in your hands, 
you tend to him as you like. 
He counts on you, he says, for care and shelter." 

"Shelter? Oh Eumaeus," Telemachus replied, 
"that word of yours, it cuts me to the quick! 
How can I lend the stranger refuge in my house? 

I'm young myself. I can hardly trust my hands so 

to fight off any man who rises up against me. 
Then my mother's wavering, always torn two ways: 
whether to stay with me and care for the household, 
true to her husband's bed, the people's voice as well, 



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or leave at long last with the best man in Achaea 

who courts her in the halls, who offers her the most. 

But our new guest, since he's arrived at your house, 

I'll give him a shirt and cloak to wear, good clothing, 

give him a two-edged sword and sandals for his feet 

and send him off, wherever his heart desires. 

Or if you'd rather, keep him here at the farmstead, 

tend to him here, and I'll send up the clothes 

and full rations to keep the man in food; 

he'll be no drain on you and all your men. 

But I can't let him go down and join the suitors. 

They're far too abusive, reckless, know no limits: 

they'll make a mockery of him — that would break my heart. 

It's hard for a man to win his way against a mob, 

even a man of iron. They are much too strong." 

"Friend" — the long-enduring Odysseus stepped in — 
"surely it's right for me to say a word at this point. 
My heart, by god, is torn to pieces hearing this, 
both of you telling how these reckless suitors, 
there in your own house, against your will, 
plot your ruin — a fine young prince like you. 
Tell me, though, do you let yourself be so abused 
or do people round about, stirred up by the prompting 
of some god, despise you? Or are your brothers at fault? 
Brothers a man can trust to fight beside him, true, 
no matter what deadly blood-feud rages on. 
Would I were young as you, to match my spirit now, 
or I were the son of great Odysseus, or the king himself 
returned from all his roving — there's still room for hope! 
Then let some foreigner lop my head off if I failed 
to march right into Odysseus' royal halls 
and kill them all. And what if I went down, 
crushed by their numbers — I, fighting alone? 
I'd rather die, cut down in my own house 
than have to look on at their outrage day by day. 
Guests treated to blows, men dragging the serving-women 
through the noble house, exploiting them all, no shame, 



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and the gushing wine swilled, the food squandered — 

gorging for gorging's sake — 

and the courting game goes on, no end in sight!" 

"You're right, my friend," sober Telemachus agreed. 
"Now let me tell you the whole story, first to last. 
It's not that all our people have turned against me, 
keen for a showdown. Nor have I any brothers at fault, 
brothers a man can trust to fight beside him, true, 
no matter what deadly blood-feud rages on . . . 
Zeus made our line a line of only sons. 
Arcesius had only one son, Laertes, 
and Laertes had only one son, Odysseus, 
and I am Odysseus' only son. He fathered me, 
he left me behind at home, and from me he got no joy. 
So now our house is plagued by swarms of enemies. 
All the nobles who rule the islands round about, 
Dulichion, and Same, and wooded Zacynthus too, 
and all who lord it in rocky Ithaca as well — 
down to the last man they court my mother, 
they lay waste my house! And mother . . . 
she neither rejects a marriage she despises 
nor can she bear to bring the courting to an end — 
while they continue to bleed my household white. 
Soon — you wait — they'll grind me down as well! 
But all lies in the lap of the great gods. 

Eumaeus, 
good old friend, go, quickly, to wise Penelope. 
Tell her I'm home from Pylos safe and sound. 
I'll stay on right here. But you come back 
as soon as you've told the news to her alone. 
No other Achaean must hear — 
all too many plot to take my life." 

"I know," 
you assured your prince, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd. 
"I see your point — there's sense in this old head. 
One thing more, and make your orders clear. 



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On the same trip do I go and give the news 

to King Laertes too? For many years, poor man, 

heartsick for his son, he'd always keep an eye 

on the farm and take his meals with the hired hands 

whenever he felt the urge to. Now, from the day 

you sailed away to Pylos, not a sip or a bite 

he's touched, they say, not as he did before, 

and his eyes are shut to all the farmyard labors. 

Huddled over, groaning in grief and tears, 

he wastes away — the man's all skin and bones." 

"So much the worse," Telemachus answered firmly. 
"Leave him alone; though it hurts us now, we must. 
If men could have all they want, free for the taking, 
I'd take first my father's journey home. So, 
you go and give the message, then come back, 
no roaming over the fields to find Laertes. 
Tell my mother to send her housekeeper, 
fast as she can, in secret — 
she can give the poor old man the news." 

That roused Eumaeus. The swineherd grasped his sandals, 
strapped them onto his feet and made for town. 
His exit did not escape Athena's notice . . . 
Approaching, closer, now she appeared a woman, 
beautiful, tall and skilled at weaving lovely things. 
Just at the shelter's door she stopped, visible to Odysseus 
but Telemachus could not see her, sense her there — 
the gods don't show themselves to every man alive. 
Odysseus saw her, so did the dogs; no barking now, 
they whimpered, cringing away in terror through the yard. 
She gave a sign with her brows, Odysseus caught it, 
out of the lodge he went and past the high stockade 
and stood before the goddess. Athena urged him on: 
"Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, old campaigner, 
now is the time, now tell your son the truth. 
Hold nothing back, so the two of you can plot 



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the suitors' doom and then set out for town. 
I myself won't lag behind you long — 
I'm blazing for a battle!" 

Athena stroked him with her golden wand. 
First she made the cloak and shirt on his body 
fresh and clean, then made him taller, supple, young, 
his ruddy tan came back, the cut of his jawline firmed 
and the dark beard clustered black around his chin. 
Her work complete, she went her way once more 
and Odysseus returned to the lodge. His own son 
gazed at him, wonderstruck, terrified too, turning 
his eyes away, suddenly — 

this must be some god — 
and he let fly with a burst of exclamations: 
"Friend, you're a new man — not what I saw before! 
Your clothes, they've changed, even your skin has changed— 
surely you are some god who rules the vaulting skies! 
Oh be kind, and we will give you offerings, 
gifts of hammered gold to warm your heart — 
spare us, please, I beg you!" 

"No, I am not a god," 
the long-enduring, great Odysseus returned. 
"Why confuse me with one who never dies? 
No, I am your father — 
the Odysseus you wept for all your days, 
you bore a world of pain, the cruel abuse of men." 

And with those words Odysseus kissed his son 
and the tears streamed down his cheeks and wet the ground, 
though before he'd always reined his emotions back. 
But still not convinced that it was his father, 
Telemachus broke out, wild with disbelief, 
"No, you're not Odysseus! Not my father! 
Just some spirit spellbinding me now — 
to make me ache with sorrow all the more. 
Impossible for a mortal to work such marvels, 
not with his own devices, not unless some god 



200 



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220 



comes down in person, eager to make that mortal 
young or old — like that! Why, just now 
you were old, and wrapped in rags, but now, look, 
you seem like a god who rules the skies up there!" 

"Telemachus," Odysseus, man of exploits, urged his son, 
"it's wrong to marvel, carried away in wonder so 
at sight of your father here before your eyes. 
No other Odysseus will ever return to you. 
That man and I are one, the man you see . . . 
here after many hardships, 
endless wanderings, after twenty years 
I have come home to native ground at last. 
My changing so? Athena's work, the Fighter's Queen — 
she has that power, she makes me look as she likes, 
now like a beggar, the next moment a young man, 
decked out in handsome clothes about my body. 
It's light work for the gods who rule the skies 
to exalt a mortal man or bring him low." 

At that 
Odysseus sat down again, and Telemachus threw his arms 
around his great father, sobbing uncontrollably 
as the deep desire for tears welled up in both. 
They cried out, shrilling cries, pulsing sharper 
than birds of prey — eagles, vultures with hooked claws — 
when farmers plunder their nest of young too young to fly. 
Both men so filled with compassion, eyes streaming tears, 
that now the sunlight would have set upon their cries 
if Telemachus had not asked his father, all at once, 
"What sort of ship, dear father, brought you here? — 
Ithaca, at last. Who did the sailors say they are? 
I hardly think you came back home on foot!" 

So long an exile, great Odysseus replied, 
"Surely, my son, I'll tell you the whole story now. 
Phaeacians brought me here, the famous sailors 
who ferry home all men who reach their shores. 
They sailed me across the sea in their swift ship, 



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they set me down in Ithaca, sound asleep, and gave me 

glittering gifts — bronze and hoards of gold and robes. 

All lie stowed in a cave, thanks to the gods' help, 

and Athena's inspiration spurred me here, now, 

so we could plan the slaughter of our foes. 

Come, give me the full tally of these suitors — 

I must see their numbers, gauge their strength. 

Then I'll deploy this old tactician's wits, 

decide if the two of us can take them on, 

alone, without allies, 

or we should hunt reserves to back us up." 

"Father," 
clear-headed Telemachus countered quickly, 
"all my life I've heard of your great fame — 
a brave man in war and a deep mind in counsel — 
but what you say dumbfounds me, staggers imagination! 
How on earth could two men fight so many and so strong? 
These suitors are not just ten or twenty, they're far more — 
you count them up for yourself now, take a moment . . . 
From Dulichion, fifty-two of them, picked young men, 
six servants in their troop; from Same, twenty-four, 
from Zacynthus, twenty Achaeans, nobles all, 
and the twelve best lords from Ithaca itself. 
Medon the herald's with them, a gifted bard, 
and two henchmen, skilled to carve their meat. 
If we pit ourselves against all these in the house, 
I fear the revenge you come back home to take 
will recoil on our heads — a bitter, deadly blow. 
Think: can you come up with a friend-in-arms? 
Some man to fight beside us, some brave heart?" 

"Let me tell you," the old soldier said, 
"bear it in mind now, listen to me closely. 
Think: will Athena flanked by Father Zeus 
do for the two of us? 
Or shall I rack my brains for another champion?" 

Telemachus answered shrewdly, full of poise, 



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"Two great champions, those you name, it's true. 

Off in the clouds they sit 

and they lord it over gods and mortal men." 

"Trust me," his seasoned father reassured him, 
"they won't hold off long from the cries and clash of battle, 
not when we and the suitors put our fighting strength 
to proof in my own halls! But now, with daybreak, 
home you go and mix with that overbearing crowd. 
The swineherd will lead me into the city later, 
looking old and broken, a beggar once again. 
If they abuse me in the palace, steel yourself, 
no matter what outrage I must suffer, even 
if they drag me through our house by the heels 
and throw me out or pelt me with things they hurl — 
you just look on, endure it. Prompt them to quit 
their wild reckless ways, try to win them over 
with friendly words. Those men will never listen, 
now the day of doom is hovering at their heads. 
One more thing. Take it to heart, I urge you. 
When Athena, Queen of Tactics, tells me it is time, 
I'll give you a nod, and when you catch that signal 
round up all the deadly weapons kept in the hall, 
stow them away upstairs in a storeroom's deep recess — 
all the arms and armor — and when the suitors miss them 
and ask you questions, put them off with a winning story: 
'I stowed them away, clear of the smoke. A far cry 
from the arms Odysseus left when he went to Troy, 
fire-damaged equipment, black with reeking fumes. 
And a god reminded me of something darker too. 
When you're in your cups a quarrel might break out, 
you'd wound each other, shame your feasting here 
and cast a pall on your courting. 
Iron has powers to draw a man to ruin.' 

Just you leave 
a pair of swords for the two of us, a pair of spears 
and a pair of oxhide bucklers right at hand so we 
can break for the weapons, seize them! Then Athena, 



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Zeus in his wisdom — they will daze the suitors' wits. 
Now one last thing. Bear it in mind. You must. 
If you are my own true son, born of my blood, 
let no one hear that Odysseus has come home. 
Don't let Laertes know, not Eumaeus either, 
none in the household, not Penelope herself. 
You and I alone will assess the women's mood 
and we might test a few of the serving-men as well: 
where are the ones who still respect us both, 
who hold us in awe? And who shirk their duties? — 
slighting you because you are so young." 

"Soon enough, father," his gallant son replied, 
"you'll sense the courage inside me, that I know — 
I'm hardly a flighty, weak-willed boy these days. 
But I think your last plan would gain us nothing. 
Reconsider, I urge you. 

You'll waste time, roaming around our holdings, 
probing the fieldhands man by man, while the suitors 
sit at ease in our house, devouring all our goods — 
those brazen rascals never spare a scrap! 
But I do advise you to sound the women out: 
who are disloyal to you, who are guiltless? 
The men — I say no to testing them farm by farm. 
That's work for later, if you have really seen 
a sign from Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder." 

Now as father and son conspired, shaping plans, 
the ship that brought the prince and shipmates back 
from Pylos was just approaching Ithaca, home port. 
As soon as they put in to the harbor's deep bay 
they hauled the black vessel up onto dry land 
and eager deckhands bore away their gear 
and rushed the priceless gifts to Clytius' house. 
But they sent a herald on to Odysseus' halls at once 
to give the news to thoughtful, cautious Penelope 
that Telemachus was home — just up-country now, 
but he'd told his mates to sail across to port — 



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so the noble queen would not be seized with fright 
and break down in tears. And now those two men met, 
herald and swineherd, both out on the same errand, 
to give the queen the news. But once they reached 
the house of the royal king the herald strode up, 
into the serving-women's midst, and burst out, 
"Your beloved son, my queen, is home at last!" 
Eumaeus though, bending close to Penelope, 
whispered every word that her dear son 
entrusted him to say. Message told in full, 
he left the halls and precincts, heading for his pigs. 

But the news shook the suitors, dashed their spirits. 
Out of the halls they crowded, past the high-walled court 
and there before the gates they sat in council. 
Polybus' son Eurymachus opened up among them: 
"Friends, what a fine piece of work he's carried off! 
Telemachus — what insolence — and we thought his little jaunt 
would come to grief! Up now, launch a black ship, 
the best we can find — muster a crew of oarsmen, 
row the news to our friends in ambush, fast, 
bring them back at once." 

And just then — 
he'd not quite finished when Amphinomus, 
wheeling round in his seat, 
saw their vessel moored in the deep harbor, 
their comrades striking sail and hoisting oars. 
He broke into heady laughter, called his friends: 
"No need for a message now. They're home, look there! 
Some god gave them the news, or they saw the prince's ship 
go sailing past and failed to overtake her." 

Rising, all trooped down to the water's edge 
as the crew hauled the vessel up onto dry land 
and the hot-blooded hands bore off their gear. 
Then in a pack they went to the meeting grounds, 
suffering no one else, young or old, to sit among them. 
Eupithes' son Antinous rose and harangued them all: 



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"What a blow! See how the gods have saved this boy 

from bloody death? And our lookouts all day long, 

stationed atop the windy heights, kept watch, 

shift on shift; and once the sun went down 

we'd never sleep the night ashore, never, 

always aboard our swift ship, cruising till dawn, 

patrolling to catch Telemachus, kill him on the spot, 

and all the while some spirit whisked him home! 

So here at home we'll plot his certain death: 

he must never slip through our hands again, 

that boy — while he still lives, 

I swear we'll never bring our venture off. 

The clever little schemer, he does have his skills, 

and the crowds no longer show us favor, not at all. 

So act! before he can gather his people in assembly. 

He'll never give in an inch, I know, he'll rise 

and rage away, shouting out to them all how we, 

we schemed his sudden death but never caught him. 

Hearing of our foul play, they'll hardly sing our praises. 

Why, they might do us damage, run us off our lands, 

drive us abroad to hunt for strangers' shores. 

Strike first, I say, and kill him! — 

clear of town, in the fields or on the road. 

Then we'll seize his estates and worldly goods, 

carve them up between us, share and share alike. 

But as for his palace, let his mother keep it, 

she and the man she weds. 

There's my plan. 
If you find it offensive, if you want him 
living on — in full command of his patrimony — 
gather here no more then, living the life of kings, 
consuming all his wealth. Each from his own house 
must try to win her, showering her with gifts. 
Then she can marry the one who offers most, 
the man marked out by fate to be her husband." 

That brought them all to a hushed, stunned silence 
till Amphinomus rose to have his say among them — 



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the noted son of Nisus, King Aretias' grandson, 
the chief who led the suitors from Dulichion, 
land of grass and grains, 
and the man who pleased Penelope the most, 
thanks to his timely words and good clear sense. 
Concerned for their welfare now, he stood and argued: 
"Friends, I've no desire to kill Telemachus, not I — 
it's a terrible thing to shed the blood of kings. 
Wait, sound out the will of the gods — that first. 
If the decrees of mighty Zeus commend the work, 
I'll kill the prince myself and spur on all the rest. 
If the gods are against it, then I say hold back!" 

So Amphinomus urged, and won them over. 
They rose at once, returned to Odysseus' palace, 
entered and took their seats on burnished chairs. 

But now an inspiration took the discreet Penelope 
to face her suitors, brutal, reckless men. 
The queen had heard it all . . . 
how they plotted inside the house to kill her son. 
The herald Medon told her — he'd overheard their schemes. 
And so, flanked by her ladies, she descended to the hall. 
That luster of women, once she reached her suitors, 
drawing her glistening veil across her cheeks, 
paused now where a column propped the sturdy roof 
and wheeling on Antinous, cried out against him: 
"You, Antinous! Violent, vicious, scheming — 
you, they say, are the best man your age in Ithaca, 
best for eloquence, counsel. You're nothing of the sort! 
Madman, why do you weave destruction for Telemachus?- 
show no pity to those who need it? — those over whom 
almighty Zeus stands guard. It's wrong, unholy, yes, 
weaving death for those who deserve your mercy! 
Don't you know how your father fled here once? 
A fugitive, terrified of the people, up in arms 
against him because he'd joined some Taphian pirates 
out to attack Thesprotians, sworn allies of ours. 



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The mobs were set to destroy him, rip his life out, 

devour his vast wealth to their heart's content, 

but Odysseus held them back, he kept their fury down. 

And this is the man whose house you waste, scot-free, 

whose wife you court, whose son you mean to kill — 

you make my life an agony! Stop, I tell you, 

stop all this, and make the rest stop too!" 

But Polybus' son Eurymachus tried to calm her: 
"Wise Penelope, daughter of Icarius, courage! 
Disabuse yourself of all these worries now. 
That man is not alive — 
he never will be, he never can be born — 
who'll lift a hand against Telemachus, your son, 
not while I walk the land and I can see the light. 
I tell you this — so help me, it will all come true — 
in an instant that man's blood will spurt around my spear! 
My spear, since time and again Odysseus dandled me 
on his knees, the great raider of cities fed me 
roasted meat and held the red wine to my lips. 
So to me your son is the dearest man alive, 
and I urge the boy to have no fear of death, 
not from the suitors at least. 
What comes from the gods — there's no escaping that." 

Encouraging, all the way, but all the while 
plotting the prince's murder in his mind . . . 
The queen, going up to her lofty well-lit room, 
fell to weeping for Odysseus, her beloved husband, 
till watchful Athena sealed her eyes with welcome sleep. 

Returning just at dusk to Odysseus and his son, 
the loyal swineherd found they'd killed a yearling pig 
and standing over it now were busy fixing supper. 
But Athena had approached Laertes' son Odysseus, 
tapped him with her wand and made him old again. 
She dressed him in filthy rags too, for fear Eumaeus, 
recognizing his master face-to-face, might hurry 



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back to shrewd Penelope, blurting out the news 
and never hide the secret in his heart. 

Telemachus was the first to greet the swineherd: 
"Welcome home, my friend! What's the talk in town? 
Are the swaggering suitors back from ambush yet — 
or still waiting to catch me coming home?" 

You answered the prince, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, 
"I had no time to go roaming all through town, 
digging round for that. My heart raced me on 
to get my message told and rush back here. 
But I met up with a fast runner there, 
sent by your crew, a herald, 
first to tell your mother all the news. 
And this I know, I saw with my own eyes — 
I was just above the city, heading home, 
clambering over Hermes' Ridge, when I caught sight 
of a trim ship pulling into the harbor, loaded down 
with a crowd aboard her, shields and two-edged spears. 
I think they're the men you're after — I'm not sure." 



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At that the young prince Telemachus smiled, 
glancing toward his father, avoiding Eumaeus' eyes. 

with the roasting done, the meal set out, they ate well 
and no one's hunger lacked a proper share of supper. 
When they'd put aside desire for food and drink, 
they remembered bed and took the gift of sleep. 



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And now, 



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BOOK SEVENTEEN 




Stranger at 
the Gates 



w h 



hen young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 
Telemachus strapped his rawhide sandals to his feet 
and the young prince, the son of King Odysseus, 
picked up the rugged spear that fit his grip 
and striking out for the city, told his swineherd, 
"I'm off to town, old friend, to present myself to mother. 
She'll never stop her bitter tears and mourning, 
well I know, till she sees me face-to-face. 
And for you I have some orders — 
take this luckless stranger to town, so he can beg 
his supper there, and whoever wants can give the man 
some crumbs and a cup to drink. How can I put up with 
every passerby? My mind's weighed down with troubles. 
If the stranger resents it, all the worse for him. 
I like to tell the truth and tell it straight." 



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"My friend, 
subtle Odysseus broke in, "I've no desire, myself, 
to linger here. Better that beggars cadge their meals 
in town than in the fields. Some willing soul 
will see to my needs. I'm hardly fit, at my age, 
to keep to a farm and jump to a foreman's every order. 
Go on then. This man will take me, as you've told him, 
once I'm warm from the fire and the sun's good and strong. 
Look at the clothing on my back — all rags and tatters. 
I'm afraid the frost at dawn could do me in, 
and town, you say, is a long hard way from here." 



20 



At that Telemachus strode down through the farm 
in quick, firm strides, brooding death for the suitors. 
And once he reached his well-constructed palace, 
propping his spear against a sturdy pillar 
and crossing the stone threshold, in he went. 



30 



His old nurse was the first to see him, Eurycleia, 
just spreading fleeces over the carved, inlaid chairs. 
Tears sprang to her eyes, she rushed straight to the prince 
as the other maids of great Odysseus flocked around him, 
hugged him warmly, kissed his head and shoulders. 



Now down from her chamber came discreet Penelope, 
looking for all the world like Artemis or golden Aphrodite — 
bursting into tears as she flung her arms around her darling son 
and kissed his face and kissed his shining eyes and sobbed, 
"You're home, Telemachus!" — words flew from her heart — 
"sweet light of my eyes! I never thought I'd see you again, 
once you shipped to Pylos — against my will, so secret, 
out for news of your dear father. Quick tell me, 
did you catch sight of the man — meet him — what?" 



40 



"Please, mother," steady Telemachus replied, 
"don't move me to tears, don't stir the heart inside me. 
I've just escaped from death. Sudden death. 
No. Bathe now, put on some fresh clothes, 



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[79-108] 



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go up to your own room with your serving-women, 

pray, and promise the gods a generous sacrifice 

to bring success, if Zeus will ever grant us 

the hour of our revenge. I myself am off 

to the meeting grounds to summon up a guest 

who came with me from abroad when I sailed home. 

I sent him on ahead with my trusted crew. 

I told Piraeus to take him to his house, 

treat him well, host him with all good will 

till I could come myself." 

Words to the mark 
that left his mother silent . . . 
She bathed now, put on some fresh clothes, 
prayed, and promised the gods a generous sacrifice 
to bring success, if Zeus would ever grant 
the hour of their revenge. 

Spear in hand, 
Telemachus strode on through the hall and out, 
and a pair of sleek hounds went trotting at his heels. 
And Athena lavished a marvelous splendor on the prince 
so the people all gazed in wonder as he came forward. 
The swaggering suitors clustered, milling round him, 
welcome words on their lips, and murder in their hearts. 
But he gave them a wide berth as they came crowding in 
and there where Mentor sat, Antiphus, Halitherses too — 
his father's loyal friends from the early days — 
he took his seat as they pressed him with their questions. 
And just then Piraeus the gallant spearman approached, 
leading the stranger through the town and out onto 
the meeting grounds. Telemachus, not hanging back, 
went right up to greet Theoclymenus, his guest, 
but Piraeus spoke out first: "Quickly now, 
Telemachus, send some women to my house 
to retrieve the gifts that Menelaus gave you." 

"Wait, Piraeus," wary Telemachus cautioned, 
"we've no idea how all of this will go. 



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If the brazen suitors cut me down in the palace — 
off guard — and carve apart my father's whole estate, 
I'd rather you yourself, or one of his friends here, 
keep those gifts and get some pleasure from them. 
But if I can bring down slaughter on that crew, 
you send the gifts to my house — we'll share the joy." 

Their plans made, he led the wayworn stranger home 
and once they reached the well-constructed palace, 
spreading out their cloaks on a chair or bench, 
into the burnished tubs they climbed and bathed. 
When women had washed them, rubbed them down with oil 
and drawn warm fleece and shirts around their shoulders, 
out of the baths they stepped and sat on high-backed chairs. 
A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher 
and over a silver basin tipped it out 
so they might rinse their hands, 
then pulled a gleaming table to their side. 
A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve them, 
appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. 
Penelope sat across from her son, beside a pillar, 
leaning back on a low chair and winding finespun yarn. 
They reached out for the good things that lay at hand 
and when they'd put aside desire for food and drink, 
the queen, for all her composure, said at last, 
"Telemachus, I'm going back to my room upstairs 
and lie down on my bed . . . 
that bed of pain my tears have streaked, year in, 
year out, from the day Odysseus sailed away to Troy 
with Atreus' two sons. 

But you, you never had the heart — 
before those insolent suitors crowd back to the house — 
to tell me clearly about your father's journey home, 
if you've heard any news." 

"Of course, mother," 
thoughtful Telemachus reassured her quickly, 
"I will tell you the whole true story now. 



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We sailed to Pylos, to Nestor, the great king, 

and he received me there in his lofty palace, 

treated me well and warmly, yes, as a father treats 

a long-lost son just home from voyaging, years abroad: 

such care he showered on me, he and his noble sons. 

But of strong, enduring Odysseus, dead or alive, 

he's heard no news, he said, from any man on earth. 

He sent me on to the famous spearman Atrides Menelaus, 

on with a team of horses drawing a bolted chariot. 

And there I saw her, Helen of Argos — all for her 

Achaeans and Trojans suffered so much hardship, 

thanks to the gods' decree . . . 

The lord of the warcry, Menelaus, asked at once 

what pressing need had brought me to lovely Lacedaemon, 

and when I told him the whole story, first to last, 

the king burst out, 'How shameful! That's the bed 

of a brave man of war they'd like to crawl inside, 

those spineless, craven cowards! 

Weak as the doe that beds down her fawns 

in a mighty lion's den — her newborn sucklings — 

then trails off to the mountain spurs and grassy bends 

to graze her fill, but back the lion comes to his own lair 

and the master deals both fawns a ghastly bloody death, 

just what Odysseus will deal that mob — ghastly death. 

Ah if only — Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo — 

that man who years ago in the games at Lesbos 

rose to Philomelides' challenge, wrestled him, 

pinned him down with one tremendous throw 

and the Argives roared with joy . . . 

if only that Odysseus sported with those suitors, 

a blood wedding, a quick death would take the lot! 

But about the things you've asked me, so intently, 

I'll skew and sidestep nothing, not deceive you, ever. 

Of all he told me — the Old Man of the Sea who never lies — 

I'll hide or hold back nothing, not a single word. 

He said he'd seen Odysseus on an island, 

ground down in misery, off in a goddess' house, 



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the nymph Calypso, who holds him there by force. 
He has no way to voyage home to his own native land, 
no trim ships in reach, no crew to ply the oars 
and send him scudding over the sea's broad back.' 

So Menelaus, the famous spearman, told me. 
My mission accomplished, back I came at once, 
and the gods sent me a stiff following wind 
that sped me home to the native land I love." 

His reassurance stirred the queen to her depths 
and the godlike seer Theoclymenus added firmly, 
"Noble lady, wife of Laertes' son, Odysseus, 
Menelaus can have no perfect revelations; 
mark my words — I will make you a prophecy, 
quite precise, and 7'11 hold nothing back. 
I swear by Zeus, the first of all the gods, 
by this table of hospitality here, my host, 
by Odysseus' hearth where I have come for help — 
I swear Odysseus is on native soil, here and now! 
Poised or on the prowl, learning of these rank crimes 
he's sowing seeds of ruin for all your suitors. 
So clear, so true, that bird-sign I saw 
as I sat on the benched ship 
and sounded out the future to the prince!" 

"If only, my friend," reserved Penelope exclaimed, 
"everything you say would come to pass! 
You'd soon know my affection, know my gifts. 
Any man you meet would call you blest." 

And so the three confided in the halls 
while all the suitors, before Odysseus' palace, 
amused themselves with discus and long throwing spears, 
out on the leveled grounds, free and easy as always, 
full of swagger. When the dinner-hour approached 
and sheep came home from pastures near and far, 



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[171-202] 



driven in by familiar drovers, 

Medon called them all, their favorite herald, 

always present at their meals: "My young lords, 

now you've played your games to your hearts' content, 

come back to the halls so we can fix your supper. 

Nothing's better than dining well on time!" 

They came at his summons, rising from the games 
and now, bustling into the well-constructed palace, 
flinging down their cloaks on a chair or bench, 
they butchered hulking sheep and fatted goats, 
full-grown hogs and a young cow from the herd, 
preparing for their feast. 

At the same time 
the king and his loyal swineherd geared to leave 
the country for the town. Eumaeus, foreman of men, 
set things in motion: "Friend, I know you're keen 
on going down to town today, just as my master bid, 
though I'd rather you stay here to guard the farm. 
But I prize the boy, I fear he'll blame me later — 
a dressing-down from your master's hard to bear. 
So off we go now. The shank of the day is past. 
You'll find it colder with nightfall coming on." 

"I know, I see your point," the crafty man replied. 
"There's sense in this old head. So let's be off. 
And from now on, you lead me all the way. 
Just give me a stick to lean on, 
if you have one ready-cut. You say the road 
is treacherous, full of slips and slides." 

With that 
he flung his beggar's sack across his shoulders — 
torn and tattered, slung from a fraying rope. 
Eumaeus gave him a staff that met his needs. 
Then the two moved out, leaving behind them 
dogs and herdsmen to stay and guard the farm. 
And so the servant led his master toward the city, 
looking for all the world like an old and broken beggar 



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hunched on a stick, his body wrapped in shameful rags . . . 

Down over the rugged road they went till hard by town 
they reached the stone-rimmed fountain running clear 
where the city people came and drew their water. 
Ithacus built it once, with Neritus and Polyctor. 
Round it a stand of poplar thrived on the dank soil, 
all in a nestling ring, and down from a rock-ledge overhead 
the cold water splashed, and crowning the fountain 
rose an altar-stone erected to the nymphs, 
where every traveler paused and left an offering. 
Here Dolius' son, Melanthius, crossed their path, 
herding his goats with a pair of drovers' help, 
the pick of his flocks to make the suitors' meal. 
As soon as he saw them there he broke into a flood 
of brutal, foul abuse that made Odysseus' blood boil. 
"Look!" — he sneered — "one scum nosing another scum along, 
dirt finds dirt by the will of god— it never fails! 
Stinking pig-boy, where do you take your filthy swine, 
this sickening beggar who licks the pots at feasts? 
Hanging round the doorposts, rubbing his back, 
scavenging after scraps, 
no hero's swords and cauldrons, not for him. 
Hand him over to me— I'll teach him to work a farm, 
muck out my stalls, pitch feed to the young goats; 
whey to drink will put some muscle on his hams! 
Oh no, he's learned his lazy ways too well, 
he's got no itch to stick to good hard work, 
he'd rather go scrounging round the countryside, 
begging for crusts to stuff his greedy gut! 
Let me tell you — so help me it's the truth — 
if he sets foot in King Odysseus' royal palace, 
salvos of footstools flung at his head by all the lords 
will crack his ribs as he runs the line of fire through the house!" 

Wild, reckless taunts — and just as he passed Odysseus 
the idiot lurched out with a heel and kicked his hip, 
but he couldn't knock the beggar off the path, 



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he stood his ground so staunchly. Odysseus was torn . . . 

should he wheel with his staff and beat the scoundrel senseless? — 

or hoist him by the midriff, split his skull on the rocks? 

He steeled himself instead, his mind in full control. 260 

But Eumaeus glared at the goatherd, cursed him to his face, 

then lifted up his hands and prayed his heart out: 

"O nymphs of the fountain, daughters of Zeus — 

if Odysseus ever burned you the long thighs 

of lambs or kids, covered with rich fat, 

now bring my prayer to pass! 

Let that man come back — some god guide him now! 

He'd toss to the winds the flashy show you make, 

Melanthius, so cocksure — always strutting round the town 

while worthless fieldhands leave your flocks a shambles!" 270 

"Listen to him!" the goatherd shouted back. 
"All bark and no bite from the vicious mutt! 
One fine day I'll ship him out in a black lugger, 
miles from Ithaca — sell him off for a good stiff price! 
Just let Apollo shoot Telemachus down with his silver bow, 
today in the halls, or the suitors snuff his life out — 
as sure as I know the day of the king's return 
is blotted out, the king is worlds away!" 

With his parting shot he left them trudging on 
and went and reached the royal house in no time. 280 

Slipping in, he took his seat among the suitors, 
facing Eurymachus, who favored him the most. 
The carvers set before him his plate of meat, 
a staid housekeeper brought the man his bread. 

And now at last the king and loyal swineherd, 
drawing near the palace, halted just outside 
as the lyre's rippling music drifted round them — 
Phemius, striking up a song for assembled guests — 
and the master seized his servant's hand, exclaiming, 
"Friend, what a noble house! Odysseus' house, it must be! 290 

No mistaking it — you could tell it among a townful, look. 



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363 



One building linked to the next, and the courtyard wall 
is finished off with a fine coping, the double doors 
are battle-proof — no man could break them down! 
I can tell a crowd is feasting there in force — 
smell the savor of roasts ... the ringing lyre, listen, 
the lyre that god has made the friend of feasts." 

"An easy guess," you said, Eumaeus, swineherd, 
"for a man as keen as you at every turn. 
Put heads together. What do we do next? 
Either you're the first one into the palace — 
mix with the suitors, leave me where I am. 
Or if you like, stay put, and I'll go first myself. 
Don't linger long. Someone might spot you here outside, 
knock you down or pelt you. Mark my words. Take care.' 

The man who'd borne long years abroad replied, 
"Well I know. Remember? There's sense in this old head. 
You go in, you first, while I stay here behind. 
Stones and blows and I are hardly strangers. 
My heart is steeled by now, 
I've had my share of pain in the waves and wars. 
Add this to the total. Bring the trial on. 
But there's no way to hide the belly's hungers — 
what a curse, what mischief it brews in all our lives! 
Just for hunger we rig and ride our long benched ships 
on the barren salt sea, speeding death to enemies." 

Now, as they talked on, a dog that lay there 
lifted up his muzzle, pricked his ears . . . 
It was Argos, long-enduring Odysseus' dog 
he trained as a puppy once, but little joy he got 
since all too soon he shipped to sacred Troy. 
In the old days young hunters loved to set him 
coursing after the wild goats and deer and hares. 
But now with his master gone he lay there, castaway, 
on piles of dung from mules and cattle, heaps collecting 
out before the gates till Odysseus' serving-men 



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[329-60] 



BOOK 17: STRANGER AT THE GATES 



365 



could cart it off to manure the king's estates. 

Infested with ticks, half-dead from neglect, 

here lay the hound, old Argos. 

But the moment he sensed Odysseus standing by 

he thumped his tail, nuzzling low, and his ears dropped, 

though he had no strength to drag himself an inch 

toward his master. Odysseus glanced to the side 

and flicked away a tear, hiding it from Eumaeus, 

diverting his friend in a hasty, offhand way: 

"Strange, Eumaeus, look, a dog like this, 

lying here on a dung-hill . . . 

what handsome lines! But I can't say for sure 

if he had the running speed to match his looks 

or he was only the sort that gentry spoil at table, 

show-dogs masters pamper for their points." 

You told the stranger, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, 
"Here — it's all too true — here's the dog of a man 
who died in foreign parts. But if he had now 
the form and flair he had in his glory days — 
as Odysseus left him, sailing off to Troy — 
you'd be amazed to see such speed, such strength. 
No quarry he chased in the deepest, darkest woods 
could ever slip this hound. A champion tracker too! 
Ah, but he's run out of luck now, poor fellow . . . 
his master's dead and gone, so far from home, 
and the heartless women tend him not at all. Slaves, 
with their lords no longer there to crack the whip, 
lose all zest to perform their duties well. Zeus, 
the Old Thunderer, robs a man of half his virtue 
the day the yoke clamps down around his neck." 



330 



340 



350 



the swineherd coming down the hall, nodded briskly, 
called and waved him on. Eumaeus, glancing about, 
picked up a handy stool where the carver always sat, 
slicing meat for the suitors feasting through the house. 
He took and put it beside the prince's table, facing him, 
straddled it himself as a steward set a plate of meat 
before the man and served him bread from trays. 

Right behind him came Odysseus, into his own house, 
looking for all the world like an old and broken beggar 
hunched on a stick, his body wrapped in shameful rags. 
Just in the doorway, just at the ashwood threshold, 
there he settled down . . . 
leaning against the cypress post a master joiner 
planed smooth and hung with a plumb line years ago. 
Telemachus motioned the swineherd over now, 
and choosing a whole loaf from a fine wicker tray 
and as much meat as his outstretched hands could hold, 
he said, "Now take these to the stranger, tell him too 
to make the rounds of the suitors, beg from one and all. 
Bashfulness, for a man in need, is no great friend." 

And Eumaeus did his bidding, went straight up 
to the guest and winged a greeting: "Here, stranger, 
Prince Telemachus sends you these, and tells you too 
to make the rounds of the suitors, beg from one and all. 
Bashfulness for a beggar, he says, is no great friend." 

"Powerful Zeus!" the crafty king responded, 
"grant that your prince be blest among mankind — 
and all his heart's desires come to pass!" 



370 



380 



With that he entered the well-constructed palace, 
strode through the halls and joined the proud suitors. 
But the dark shadow of death closed down on Argos' eyes 
the instant he saw Odysseus, twenty years away. 

Now Prince Telemachus, first by far to note 



360 



Taking the food in both hands, setting it down, 
spread out on his filthy sack before his feet, 
the beggar fell to his meal 

as the singer raised a song throughout the house. 
Once he'd supped and the stirring bard had closed, 
the suitors broke into uproar down along the hall. 



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[391-419] 



BOOK 17! STRANGER AT THE GATES 



367 



And now Athena came to the side of Laertes' royal son 

and urged him, "Go now, gather crusts from all the suitors, 

test them, so we can tell the innocent from the guilty." 

But not even so would Athena save one man from death. 

Still, off he went, begging from each in turn, 

circling left to right, reaching out his hand 

like a beggar from the day that he was born. 

They pitied him, gave him scraps, were puzzled too, 

asking each other, "Who is this?" "Where's he from?" 

Till the goatherd Melanthius shouted out in their midst, 

"Listen to me, you lords who court our noble queen — 

I'll tell you about the stranger. I've seen him before. 

I know for a fact the swineherd led him in, 

though I have no idea who the fellow is 

or where he thinks he comes from." 

At that 
Antinous wheeled on Eumaeus, lashing out at him: 
"Your highness, swineherd — why drag this to town? 
Haven't we got our share of vagabonds to deal with, 
disgusting beggars who lick the feasters' plates? 
Isn't it quite enough, these swarming crowds 
consuming your master's bounty — 
must you invite this rascal in the bargain?" 

"Antinous, 
highborn as you are," you told the man, Eumaeus, 
"that was a mean low speech! 
Now who'd go out, who on his own hook — 
not I — and ask a stranger in from nowhere 
unless he had some skills to serve the house? 
A prophet, a healer who cures disease, a worker in wood 
or even a god-inspired bard whose singing warms the heart- 
they're the ones asked in around the world. A beggar? 
Who'd invite a beggar to bleed his household white? 
You, you of all the suitors are always roughest 
on the servants of our king, on me most of all. 
Not that I care, no, so long as his queen, 
his wise queen, is still alive in the palace, 



400 



410 



420 



430 



Prince Telemachus too." 

"Stop, Eumaeus," 
poised Telemachus broke in quickly now, 
"don't waste so much breath on Antinous here. 
It's just his habit to bait a man with abuse 
and spur the rest as well." 

He wheeled on the suitor, 
letting loose: "How kind you are to me, Antinous, 
kind as a father to his son! Encouraging me 
to send this stranger packing from my house 
with a harsh command! I'd never do it. God forbid. 
Take and give to the beggar. I don't grudge it — 
I'd even urge you on. No scruples now, 
never fear your gifts will upset my mother 
or any servant in King Odysseus' royal house. 
But no such qualm could enter that head of yours, 
bent on feeding your own face, not feeding strangers!" 

Antinous countered the young prince in kind: 
"So high and mighty, Telemachus — such unbridled rage! 
If all the suitors gave him the sort of gift I'll give, 
the house would be rid of him for three whole months!" 
With that, from under his table he seized the stool 
that propped his smooth feet as he reveled on — 
just lifting it into view . . . 

But as for the rest, 
all gave to the beggar, filled his sack with handouts, 
bread and meat. And Odysseus seemed at the point 
of getting back to his doorsill, 
done with testing suitors, home free himself 
when he stopped beside Antinous, begging face-to-face: 
"Give me a morsel, friend. You're hardly the worst 
Achaean here, it seems. The noblest one, in fact. 
You look like a king to me! 
So you should give a bigger crust than the rest 
and I will sing your praises all across the earth. 
I too once lived in a lofty house that men admired; 



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450 



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[420-52] 



rolling in wealth, I'd often give to a vagabond like myself, 

whoever he was, whatever need had brought him to my door. 

And crowds of servants I had, and lots of all it takes 

to live the life of ease, to make men call you rich. 

But Zeus ruined it all — god's will, no doubt — 

when he shipped me off with a roving band of pirates 

bound for Egypt, a long hard sail, to wreck my life. 470 

There in the Nile delta I moored our ships of war. 

God knows I ordered my trusty crews to stand by, 

just where they were, and guard the anchored fleet 

and I sent a patrol to scout things out from higher ground. 

But swept away by their own reckless fury, the crew went berserk — 

they promptly began to plunder the lush Egyptian farms, 

dragged off the women and children, killed the men. 

Outcries reached the city in no time — stirred by shouts 

the entire town came streaming down at the break of day, 

filling the river plain with chariots, ranks of infantry 480 

and the gleam of bronze. Zeus who loves the lightning 

flung down murderous panic on all my men-at-arms — 

no one dared to stand his ground and fight, 

disaster ringed us round from every quarter. 

Droves of my men they hacked down with swords, 

led off the rest alive, to labor for them as slaves. 

Myself? They passed me on to a stranger come their way, 

to ship me to Cyprus — Iasus' son Dmetor it was, 

who ruled Cyprus then with an iron fist. 

And from there I sailed to Ithaca, 490 

just as you see me now, ground down by pain and sorrow — " 



"Good god almighty!" Antinous cut the beggar short. 
"What spirit brought this pest to plague our feast? 
Back off! Into the open, clear of my table, or you, 
you'll soon land in an Egypt, Cyprus, to break your heart! 
What a brazen, shameless beggar! Scrounging food 
from each man in turn, and look at their handouts, 
reckless, never a qualm, no holding back, not 
when making free with the next man's goods — 
each one's got plenty here." 



[453-83] 



BOOK 17: STRANGER AT THE GATES 



369 



"Pity, pity," 500 

the wry Odysseus countered, drawing away. 
"No sense in your head to match your handsome looks. 
You'd grudge your servant a pinch of salt from your own larder, 
you who lounge at the next man's board but lack the heart 
to tear a crust of bread and hand it on to me, 
though there's god's plenty here." 

Boiling over 
Antinous gave him a scathing look and let fly, 
"Now you won't get out of the hall unscarred, I swear, 
not after such a filthy string of insults!" 

With that 
he seized the stool and hurled it — 

Square in the back 510 

it struck Odysseus, just under the right shoulder 
but he stood up against it — steady as a rock, 
unstaggered by Antinous' blow — just shook his head, 
silent, his mind churning with thoughts of bloody work. 
Back he went to the doorsill, crouched, and setting down 
his sack about to burst, he faced the suitors, saying, 
"Hear me out, you lords who court the noble queen, 
I must say what the heart inside me urges. 
There's nothing to groan about, no hurt, when a man 
takes a blow as he fights to save his own possessions, 520 

cattle or shining flocks. But Antinous struck me 
all because of my good-for-nothing belly — that, 
that curse that makes such pain for us poor men. 
But if beggars have their gods and Furies too, 
let Antinous meet his death before he meets his bride!" 



"Enough, stranger!" Antinous volleyed back. 
"Sit there and eat in peace — or go get lost! Or else, 
for the way you talk, these young men will hale you 
up and down the halls by your hands or feet 
until you're skinned alive!" 

Naked threats — 
but the rest were outraged, even those brash suitors. 
One would say to another, "Look, Antinous, 



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[507-36] 



BOOK 171 STRANGER AT THE GATES 



371 



that was a crime, to strike the luckless beggar!" 

"Your fate is sealed if he's some god from the blue." 

"And the gods do take on the look of strangers 
dropping in from abroad — " 

"Disguised in every way 
as they roam and haunt our cities, watching over us — " 

"All our foul play, all our fair play too!" 

So they warned, but Antinous paid no heed. 
And the anguish welled up in Telemachus' breast 
for the blow his father took, yet he let no tears 
go rolling down his face — just shook his head, 
silent, his mind churning with thoughts of bloody work. 

But then, when cautious Queen Penelope heard 
how Antinous struck the stranger, there in the halls, 
she cried out, with her serving-women round her, 
"May Apollo the Archer strike you just as hard!" 
And her housekeeper Eurynome added quickly, 
"If only our prayers were granted — 
then not one of the lot would live to see 
Dawn climb her throne tomorrow!" 

"Dear old woman, 
alert Penelope replied, "they're all hateful, 
plotting their vicious plots. But Antinous 
is the worst of all — he's black death itself. 
Here's this luckless stranger, wandering down 
the halls and begging scraps — hard-pressed by need — 
and the rest all give the man his fill of food, 
but that one gives him a footstool 
hurled at his right shoulder, hits his back!" 

While she exclaimed among her household women, 
sitting there in her room, Odysseus bent to supper. 



540 



550 



560 



Penelope called the swineherd in and gave instructions: 
"Go, good Eumaeus, tell the stranger to come at once. 
I'd like to give him a warm welcome, ask the man 
if he's heard some news about my gallant husband 
or seen him in the flesh . . . 
He seems like one who's roved around the world." 

"My queen," you answered, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, 
"if only the lords would hold their peace a moment! 
Such stories he tells — he'd charm you to your depths. 
Three nights, three days I kept him in my shelter; 
I was the first the fellow stumbled onto, 
fleeing from some ship. But not even so 
could he bring his tale of troubles to an end. 
You know how you can stare at a bard in wonder — 
trained by the gods to sing and hold men spellbound — 
how you can long to sit there, listening, all your life 
when the man begins to sing. So he charmed my heart, 
I tell you, huddling there beside me at my fire. 
He and Odysseus' father go way back, he says, 
sworn friends, and the stranger hails from Crete 
where the stock of old King Minos still lives on, 
and from Crete he made his way, racked by hardship, 
tumbling on like a rolling stone until he turned up here. 
He swears he's heard of Odysseus — just in reach, 
in rich Thesprotian country — still alive, 
laden with treasure, heading home at last!" 

"Go," 
the cautious queen responded, "call him here 
so he can tell me his own tale face-to-face. 
Our friends can sit at the gates or down the halls 
and play their games, debauched to their hearts' content. 
Why not? Their own stores, their bread and seasoned wine, 
lie intact at home; food for their serving-men alone. 
But they, they infest our palace day and night, 
they butcher our cattle, our sheep, our fat goats, 
feasting themselves sick, swilling our glowing wine 



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[537-65] 



as if there's no tomorrow — all of it, squandered. 

No, there is no man like Odysseus in command 

to drive this curse from the house. Dear god, 

if only Odysseus came back home to native soil now, 

he and his son would avenge the outrage of these men — like that!" 



600 



At her last words Telemachus shook with a lusty sneeze 
and the sudden outburst echoed up and down the halls. 
The queen was seized with laughter, calling out 
to Eumaeus winged words: "Quickly, go! 
Bring me this stranger now, face-to-face! 
You hear how my son sealed all I said with a sneeze? 
So let death come down with grim finality on these suitors — 
one and all — not a single man escape his sudden doom! 
And another thing. Mark my words, I tell you. 
If I'm convinced that all he says is true, 
I'll dress him in shirt and cloak, in handsome clothes." 



610 



Off the swineherd went, following her instructions, 
made his way to the stranger's side and winged a word: 
"Old friend — our queen, wise Penelope, summons you, 
the prince's mother! The spirit moves her now, 
heartsick as she is, 

to ask a question or two about her husband. 
And if she's convinced that all you say is true, 
she'll dress you in shirt and cloak. That's what you need, 
that most of all now. Bread you can always beg 
around the country, fill your belly well — 
they'll give you food, whoever has a mind to." 



620 



"Gladly, Eumaeus," the patient man replied, 
"I'll tell her the whole truth, and nothing but, 
Icarius' daughter, your wise queen Penelope. 
I know all about that man . . . 
it's been my lot to suffer what he's suffered. 
But I fear the mob's abuse, those rough young bucks, 
their pride and violence hit the iron skies! 



630 



[566-95] 



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373 



Just now that scoundrel — as I went down the halls, 
harming no one — up and dealt me a jolting blow, 
and who would raise a hand to save me? Telemachus? 
Anyone else? No one. So tell Penelope now, 
anxious as she may be, to wait in the halls 
until the sun goes down. Then she can ask me 
all she likes about her husband's journey home. 
But let her give me a seat close by the fire. 
The clothes on my back are tatters. Well you know — 
you are the first I begged for care and shelter." 



640 



Back the swineherd went, following his instructions. 
Penelope, just as he crossed her threshold, broke out, 
"Didn't you bring him? What's in the vagrant's mind? 
Fear of someone? Embarrassed by something else, 
here in the house? Is the fellow bashful? 
A bashful man will make a sorry beggar." 



You answered your queen, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, 
"He talks to the point — he thinks as the next man would 
who wants to dodge their blows, that brutal crew. 
He tells you to wait here till the sun goes down. 
It's better for you, my queen. Then you can talk 
with the man in private, hear the stranger's news." 



650 



"Nobody's fool, that stranger," wise Penelope said, 
"he sees how things could go. Surely no men on earth 
can match that gang for reckless, deadly schemes." 



So she agreed, and now, mission accomplished, 
back the loyal swineherd went to mix with the suitors. 
Moving next to the prince, he whispered a parting word, 
their heads close together so no one else could hear. 
"Dear boy, I must be off, to see to the pigs 
and the whole farm — your living, mine as well. 
You're the one to tend to all things here. 
Look out for your own skin first, 



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[595-606] 



do take care, you mustn't come to grief. 

Crowds of your own countrymen plot your death — 

let Zeus wipe out the lot before they kill us all!" 

"Right you are, old friend," the canny prince replied. 
"Now off you go, once you've had your supper. 
But come back bright and early, 
bring some good sound boars for slaughter. Yes, 
I'll tend to all things here, I and the deathless gods." 

And the swineherd sat down again on his polished stool 
and once he'd supped and drunk to his heart's content, 
back he went to his pigs, leaving the royal precincts 
still filled with feasters, all indulging now 
in the joys of dance and song. 
The day was over. Dusk was falling fast. 



BOOK EIGHTEEN 



670 




The Beggar-King 
of Ithaca 



No 



I ow along came this tramp, this public nuisance 
who used to scrounge a living round the streets of Ithaca- 
notorious for his belly, a ravenous, bottomless pit 
for food and drink, but he had no pith, no brawn, 
despite the looming hulk that met your eyes. 
Arnaeus was his name, 
so his worthy mother called him at birth, 
but all the young men called him Irus for short 
because he'd hustle messages at any beck and call. 
Well he came by to rout the king from his own house 
and met Odysseus now with a rough, abusive burst: 
"Get off the porch, you old goat, before I haul you 
off by the leg! Can't you see them give me the wink, 
all of them here, to drag you out — and so I would, 
but I've got some pangs of conscience. Up with you, man, 



10 



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[13-iO] 



[41-711 



BOOK 18: THE BEGGAR-KING OF ITHACA 



or before you know it, we'll be trading blows!" 

A killing look, 
and the wily old soldier countered, "Out of your mind? 
What damage have I done you? What have I said? 
I don't grudge you anything, 
not if the next man up and gives you plenty. 
This doorsill is big enough for the both of us — 
you've got no call to grudge me what's not yours. 
You're another vagrant, just like me, I'd say, 
and it lies with the gods to make us rich or poor. So, 
keep your fists to yourself, don't press your luck, don't rile me, 
or old as I am, I'll bloody your lip, splatter your chest 
and buy myself some peace and quiet for tomorrow. 
I doubt you'll ever come lumbering back again 
to the halls of Laertes' royal son Odysseus." 

"Look who's talking!" the beggar rumbled in anger. 
"How this pot-bellied pig runs off at the mouth — 
like an old crone at her oven! 
Well 7've got a knock-out blow in store for him — 
I'll batter the tramp with both fists, bash every tooth 
from his jaws, I'll litter the ground with teeth 
like a rogue sow's, punished for rooting corn! 
Belt up — so the lords can see us fight it out. 
How can you beat a champion half your age?" 

Tongue -lashing each other, tempers flaring, 
there on the polished sill before the lofty doors. 
And Antinous, that grand prince, hearing them wrangle, 
broke into gloating laughter, calling to the suitors, 
"Friends, nothing like this has come our way before — 
what sport some god has brought the palace now! 
The stranger and Irus, look, 
they'd battle it out together, fists flying. 
Come, let's pit them against each other — fast!" 

All leapt from their seats with whoops of laughter, 



20 



30 



40 



clustering round the pair of ragged beggars there 
as Eupithes' son Antinous planned the contest. 
"Quiet, my fine friends. Here's what I propose. 
These goat sausages sizzling here in the fire — 
we packed them with fat and blood to have for supper. 
Now, whoever wins this bout and proves the stronger, 
let that man step up and take his pick of the lot! 
What's more, from this day on he feasts among us — 
no other beggar will we allow inside 
to cadge his meals from us!" 

They all cheered 
but Odysseus, foxy veteran, plotted on . . . 
"Friends, how can an old man, worn down with pain, 
stand up to a young buck? It's just this belly of mine, 
this trouble-maker, tempts me to take a licking. 
So first, all of you swear me a binding oath: 
come, not one of you steps in for Irus here, 
strikes me a foul blow to pull him through 
and lays me in the dust." 

And at that 
they all mouthed the oath that he required, 
and once they vowed they'd never interfere, 
Prince Telemachus drove the matter home: 
"Stranger, if your spine and fighting pride 
prompt you to go against this fellow now, 
have no fear of any suitor in the pack — 
whoever fouls you will have to face a crowd. 
Count on me, your host. And two lords back me up, 
Antinous and Eurymachus — both are men of sense." 

They all shouted approval of the prince 
as Odysseus belted up, roping his rags around his loins, 
baring his big rippling thighs — his boxer's broad shoulders, 
his massive chest and burly arms on full display 
as Athena stood beside him, 
fleshing out the limbs of the great commander . . . 
Despite their swagger, the suitors were amazed, 



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378 homer: the odyssey 

gaping at one another, trading forecasts: 
"Irus will soon be ironed out for good!" 

"He's in for the beating he begged for all along." 

"Look at the ham on that old gaffer — " 



[72-97] 



"Just under his rags!" 



Each outcry jolted Irus to the core — too late. 
The servants trussed his clothes up, dragged him on, 
the flesh on his body quaking now with terror. 
Antinous rounded on him, flinging insults: 
"You, you clumsy ox, you're better off dead 
or never born at all, if you cringe at him, 
paralyzed with fear of an old, broken hulk, 
ground down by the pains that hound his steps. 
Mark my word — so help me I'll make it good — 
if that old relic whips you and wins the day, 
I'll toss you into a black ship and sail you off 
to Echetus, the mainland king who wrecks all men alive! 
He'll lop your nose and ears with his ruthless blade, 
he'll rip your privates out by the roots, he will, 
and serve them up to his dogs to bolt down raw!" 

That threat shook his knees with a stronger fit 
but they hauled him into the ring. Both men put up their fists — 
with the seasoned fighter Odysseus deeply torn now . . . 
should he knock him senseless, leave him dead where he dropped 
or just stretch him out on the ground with a light jab? 
As he mulled things over, that way seemed the best: 
a glancing blow, the suitors would not detect him. 
The two men squared off — 

and Irus hurled a fist 
at Odysseus' right shoulder as he came through 
with a hook below the ear, pounding Irus' neck, 
smashing the bones inside — 

Suddenly red blood 



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came spurting out of his mouth, and headlong down 
he pitched in the dust, howling, teeth locked in a grin, 
feet beating the ground — 

And the princely suitors, 
flinging their hands in the air, died laughing. 
Grabbing him by the leg, Odysseus hauled him 
through the porch, across the yard to the outer gate, 
heaped him against the courtyard wall, sitting slumped, 
stuck his stick in his hand and gave him a parting shot: 
"Now hold your post — play the scarecrow to all the pigs and dogs! 
But no more lording it over strangers, no more playing 
the beggar-king for you, you loathsome fool, 
or you'll bring down something worse around your neck!" 



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He threw his beggar's sack across his shoulders — 
torn and tattered, slung from a fraying rope — 
then back he went to the sill and took his seat. 
The suitors ambled back as well, laughing jauntily, 
toasting the beggar warmly now, those proud young blades, 
one man egging the other on: "Stranger, friend, may Zeus 
and the other deathless gods fill up your sack with blessings!" 



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"All your heart desires!" 



"You've knocked him out of action, 



that insatiable tramp — " 



"That parasite on the land!" 



"Ship him off to Echetus, fast — the mainland king 
who wrecks all men alive!" 

Welcome words 
and a lucky omen too — Odysseus' heart leapt up. 
Antinous laid before him a generous goat sausage, 
bubbling fat and blood. Amphinomus took two loaves 
from the wicker tray and set them down beside him, 
drank his health in a golden cup and said, 
"Cheers, old friend, old father, 
saddled now as you are with so much trouble- 



no 



380 HOMER: THE ODYSSEY [123-54] 

here's to your luck, great days from this day on!" 

And the one who knew the world replied at length, 
"Amphinomus, you seem like a man of good sense to me. 
Just like your father — at least I've heard his praises, 
Nisus of Dulichion, a righteous man, and rich. 
You're his son, they say, you seem well-spoken, too. 
So I will tell you something. Listen. Listen closely. 

Of all that breathes and crawls across the earth, 150 

our mother earth breeds nothing feebler than a man. 
So long as the gods grant him power, spring in his knees, 
he thinks he will never suffer affliction down the years. 
But then, when the happy gods bring on the long hard times, 
bear them he must, against his will, and steel his heart. 
Our lives, our mood and mind as we pass across the earth, 
turn as the days turn . . . 

as the father of men and gods makes each day dawn. 
I too seemed destined to be a man of fortune once, 
and a wild wicked swath I cut, indulged my lust for violence, 160 

staking all on my father and my brothers. 

Look at me now. 
And so, I say, let no man ever be lawless all his life, 
just take in peace what gifts the gods will send. 

True, 
but here I see you suitors plotting your reckless work, 
carving away at the wealth, affronting the loyal wife 
of a man who won't be gone from kin and country long. 
I say he's right at hand — and may some power save you, 
spirit you home before you meet him face-to-face 
the moment he returns to native ground! 

Once under his own roof, he and your friends, 170 

believe you me, won't part till blood has flowed." 

With that 
he poured out honeyed wine to the gods and drank deeply, 
then restored the cup to the young prince's hands. 
Amphinomus made his way back through the hall, 
heart sick with anguish, shaking his head, 
fraught with grave forebodings . . . 



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but not even so could he escape his fate. 
Even then Athena had bound him fast to death 
at the hands of Prince Telemachus and his spear. 
Now back he went to the seat that he'd left empty. 

But now the goddess Athena with her glinting eyes 
inspired Penelope, Icarius' daughter, wary, poised, 
to display herself to her suitors, fan their hearts, 
inflame them more, and make her even more esteemed 
by her husband and her son than she had been before. 
Forcing a laugh, she called her maid: "Eurynome, 
my spirit longs — though it never did till now — 
to appear before my suitors, loathe them as I do. 
I'd say a word to my son too, for his own good, 
not to mix so much with that pernicious crowd, 
so glib with their friendly talk 
but plotting wicked plots they'll hatch tomorrow." 

"Well said, my child," the old woman answered, 
"all to the point. Go to the boy and warn him now, 
hold nothing back. But first you should bathe yourself, 
give a gloss to your face. Don't go down like that — 
your eyes dimmed, your cheeks streaked with tears. 
It makes things worse, this grieving on and on. 
Your son's now come of age — your fondest prayer 
to the deathless gods, to see him wear a beard." 

"Eurynome," discreet Penelope objected, 
"don't try to coax me, care for me as you do, 
to bathe myself, refresh my face with oils. 
Whatever glow I had died long ago . . . 
the gods of Olympus snuffed it out that day 
my husband sailed away in the hollow ships. 
But please, have Autonoe and Hippodamia come 
and support me in the hall. I'll never brave 
those men alone. I'd be too embarrassed." 

Now as the old nurse bustled through the house 



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THE BEGGAR-KING OF ITHACA 



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to give the women orders, call them to the queen, 
the bright-eyed goddess thought of one more thing. 
She drifted a sound slumber over Icarius' daughter, 
back she sank and slept, her limbs fell limp and still, 
reclining there on her couch, all the while Athena, 
luminous goddess, lavished immortal gifts on her 
to make her suitors lose themselves in wonder . . . 
The divine unguent first. She cleansed her cheeks, 
her brow and fine eyes with ambrosia smooth as the oils 
the goddess Love applies, donning her crown of flowers 
whenever she joins the Graces' captivating dances. 
She made her taller, fuller in form to all men's eyes, 
her skin whiter than ivory freshly carved, and now, 
Athena's mission accomplished, off the bright one went 
as bare-armed maids came in from their own quarters, 
chattering all the way, and sleep released the queen. 
She woke, touched her cheek with a hand, and mused, 
"Ah, what a marvelous gentle sleep, enfolding me 
in the midst of all my anguish! Now if only 
blessed Artemis sent me a death as gentle, now, 
this instant — no more wasting away my life, 
my heart broken in longing for my husband . . . 
He had every strength, 
rising over his countrymen, head and shoulders." 

Then, leaving her well-lit chamber, she descended, 
not alone: two of her women followed close behind. 
That radiant woman, once she reached her suitors, 
drawing her glistening veil across her cheeks, 
paused now where a column propped the sturdy roof, 
with one of her loyal handmaids stationed either side. 
The suitors' knees went slack, their hearts dissolved in lust- 
all of them lifted prayers to lie beside her, share her bed. 
But turning toward her son, she warned, "Telemachus, 
your sense of balance is not what it used to be. 
When you were a boy you had much better judgment. 
Now that you've grown and reached your young prime, 
and any stranger, seeing how tall and handsome you are, 



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would think you the son of some great man of wealth — 
now your sense of fairness seems to fail you. 
Consider the dreadful thing just done in our halls — 
how you let the stranger be so abused! Why, 
suppose our guest, sitting here at peace, 
here in our own house, 

were hauled and badly hurt by such cruel treatment? 
You'd be shamed, disgraced in all men's eyes!" 

"Mother . . ." Telemachus paused, then answered. 
"I cannot fault your anger at all this. 
My heart takes note of everything, feels it, too, 
both the good and the bad — the boy you knew is gone. 
But how can I plan my world in a sane, thoughtful way? 
These men drive me mad, hedging me round, right and left, 
plotting their lethal plots, and no one takes my side. 
Still, this battle between the stranger and Irus 
hardly went as the suitors might have hoped: 
the stranger beat him down! 
If only — Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo — 
these gallants, now, this moment, here in our house, 
were battered senseless, heads lolling, knees unstrung, 
some sprawled in the courtyard, some sprawled outside! 
Slumped like Irus down at the front gates now, 
whipped, and his head rolling like some drunk. 
He can't stand up on his feet and stagger home, 
whatever home he's got — the man's demolished." 

So Penelope and her son exchanged their hopes 
as Eurymachus stepped in to praise the queen. 
"Ah, daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, 
if all the princes in Ionian Argos saw you now! 
What a troop of suitors would banquet in your halls, 
tomorrow at sunrise! You surpass all women 
in build and beauty, refined and steady mind." 

"Oh no, Eurymachus," wise Penelope demurred, 
"whatever form and feature I had, what praise I'd won, 



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BOOK 18: THE BEGGAR-KING OF ITHACA 



the deathless gods destroyed that day the Achaeans 

sailed away to Troy, my husband in their ships, 

Odysseus — if he could return to tend my life 

the renown I had would only grow in glory. 

Now my life is torment . . . 

look at the griefs some god has loosed against me! 

I'll never forget the day he left this land of ours; 

he caught my right hand by the wrist and said, gently, 

'Dear woman, I doubt that every Achaean under arms 

will make it home from Troy, all safe and sound. 

The Trojans, they say, are fine soldiers too, 

hurling javelins, shooting flights of arrows, 

charioteers who can turn the tide — like that! — 

when the great leveler, War, brings on some deadlock. 

So I cannot tell if the gods will sail me home again 

or I'll go down out there, on the fields of Troy, 

but all things here must rest in your control. 

Watch over my father and mother in the palace, 

just as now, or perhaps a little more, 

when I am far from home. 

But once you see the beard on the boy's cheek, 

you wed the man you like, and leave your house behind. 

So my husband advised me then. Now it all comes true . . 

a night will come when a hateful marriage falls my lot — 

this cursed life of mine! Zeus has torn away my joy. 

But there's something else that mortifies me now. 

Your way is a far cry from the time-honored way 

of suitors locked in rivalry, striving to win 

some noble woman, a wealthy man's daughter. 

They bring in their own calves and lambs 

to feast the friends of the bride-to-be, yes, 

and shower her with gleaming gifts as well. 

They don't devour the woman's goods scot-free." 

Staunch Odysseus glowed with joy to hear all this — 
his wife's trickery luring gifts from her suitors now, 
enchanting their hearts with suave seductive words 
but all the while with something else in mind. 



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"Gifts?" 
Eupithes' son Antinous took her point at once. 
"Daughter of Icarius, sensible Penelope, 
whatever gifts your suitors would like to bring, 
accept them. How ungracious to turn those gifts away! 
We won't go back to our own estates, or anywhere else, 
till you have wed the man you find the best." 

So he proposed, and all the rest agreed. 
Each suitor sent a page to go and get a gift. 
Antinous' man brought in a grand, resplendent robe, 
stiff with embroidery, clasped with twelve gold brooches, 
long pins that clipped into sheathing loops with ease. 
Eurymachus' man brought in a necklace richly wrought, 
gilded, strung with amber and glowing like the sun. 
Eurydamas' two men came with a pair of earrings, 
mulberry clusters dangling in triple drops 
with a glint to catch the heart. 
From the halls of lord Pisander, Polyctor's son, 
a servant brought a choker, a fine, gleaming treasure. 
And so each suitor in turn laid on a handsome gift. 
Then the noble queen withdrew to her upper room, 
her file of waiting ladies close behind her, 
bearing the gorgeous presents in their arms. 

Now the suitors turned to dance and song, 
to the lovely beat and sway, 
waiting for dusk to come upon them there . . . 
and the dark night came upon them, lost in pleasure. 
They rushed to set up three braziers along the walls 
to give them light, piled them high with kindling, 
sere, well-seasoned, just split with an ax, 
and mixed in chips to keep the torches flaring. 
The maids of Odysseus, steady man, took turns 
to keep the fires up, but the king himself, 
dear to the gods and cunning to the core, 
gave them orders brusquely: "Maids of Odysseus, 
your master gone so long — quick now, off you go 



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BOOK 181 THE BEGGAR-KING OF ITHACA 



to the room where your queen and mistress waits. 
Sit with her there and try to lift her spirits, 
combing wool in your hands or spinning yarn. 
But I will trim the torches for all her suitors, 
even if they would like to revel on till Morning 
mounts her throne. They'll never wear me down. 
I have a name for lasting out the worst." 

At that 
the women burst into laughter, glancing back and forth. 
Flushed with beauty, Melantho mocked him shamelessly — 
Dolius was her father but Penelope brought her up; 
she treated her like her own child and gave her toys 
to cheer her heart. But despite that, her heart 
felt nothing for all her mistress' anguish now. 
She was Eurymachus' lover, always slept with him. 
She was the one who mocked her king and taunted, 
"Cock of the walk, did someone beat your brains out? 
Why not go bed down at the blacksmith's cozy forge? 
Or a public place where tramps collect? Why here — 
blithering on, nonstop, 
bold as brass in the face of all these lords? 
No fear in your heart? Wine's got to your wits? — 
or do you always play the fool and babble nonsense? 
Lost your head, have you, because you drubbed that hobo Irus? 
You wait — a better man than Irus will take you on, 
he'll box both sides of your skull with heavy fists 
and cart you out the palace gushing blood!" 

" You wait, 
you bitch" — the hardened veteran flashed a killing look. 
"I'll go straight to the prince with your foul talk. 
The prince will chop you to pieces here and now!" 

His fury sent the women fluttering off, scattering 
down the hall with panic shaking every limb — 
they knew he spoke the truth. 
But he took up his post by the flaring braziers, 
tending the fires closely, looking after them all, 



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though the heart inside him stirred with other things, 
ranging ahead, now, to all that must be done . . . 

But Athena had no mind to let the brazen suitors 
hold back now from their heart-rending insults — 
she meant to make the anguish cut still deeper 
into the core of Laertes' son Odysseus. 
Polybus' son Eurymachus launched in first, 
baiting the king to give his friends a laugh: 
"Listen to me, you lords who court our noble queen! 
I simply have to say what's on my mind. Look, 
surely the gods have fetched this beggar here 
to Odysseus' house. At least our torchlight seems 
to come from the sheen of the man's own head — 
there's not a hair on his bald pate, not a wisp!" 

Then he wheeled on Odysseus, raider of cities: 
"Stranger, how would you like to work for me 
if I took you on — I'd give you decent wages — 
picking the stones to lay a tight dry wall 
or planting tall trees on the edge of my estate? 
I'd give you rations to last you year-round, 
clothes for your body, sandals for your feet. 
Oh no, you've learned your lazy ways too well, 
you've got no itch to stick to good hard work, 
you'd rather go scrounging round the countryside, 
begging for crusts to stuff your greedy gut!" 

"Ah, Eurymachus," Odysseus, master of many exploits, 
answered firmly, "if only the two of us could go 
man-to-man in the labors of the field . . . 
In the late spring, when the long days come round, 
out in the meadow, I swinging a well-curved scythe 
and you swinging yours — we'd test our strength for work, 
fasting right till dusk with lots of hay to mow. 
Or give us a team of oxen to drive, purebreds, 
hulking, ruddy beasts, both lusty with fodder, 



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[373-403] 



paired for age and pulling-power that never flags — 

with four acres to work, the loam churning under the plow — 

you'd see what a straight unbroken furrow I could cut you then. 

Or if Zeus would bring some battle on — out of the blue, 

this very day — and give me a shield and two spears 

and a bronze helmet to fit this soldier's temples, 

then you'd see me fight where front ranks clash — 

no more mocking this belly of mine, not then. 

Enough. You're sick with pride, you brutal fool. 

No doubt you count yourself a great, powerful man 

because you sport with a puny crowd, ill-bred to boot. 

If only Odysseus came back home and stood right here, 

in a flash you'd find those doors — broad as they are — 

too cramped for your race to safety through the porch!" 



430 



That made Eurymachus' fury seethe and burst — 
he gave the beggar a dark look and let fly, "You, 
you odious — I'll make you pay for your ugly rant! 
Bold as brass in the face of all these lords? 
No fear in your heart? Wine's got to your wits? — 
or do you always play the fool and babble nonsense? 
Lost your head, have you, because you drubbed that hobo Irus?" 



440 



As he shouted out he seized a stool, but Odysseus, 
fearing the blow, crouched at Amphinomus' knees 
as Eurymachus hurled and hit the wine-steward, 
clipping his right hand — 
his cup dropped, clattered along the floor 
and flat on his back he went, groaning in the dust. 
The suitors broke into uproar through the shadowed halls, 
glancing at one another, trading angry outcries: 
"Would to god this drifter had dropped dead — " 



450 



"Anywhere else before he landed here!" 

"Then he'd never have loosed such pandemonium." 



"Now we're squabbling over beggars!' 



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389 



in the sumptuous feast 



"No more joy 
"Now riot rules the day!" 



But now Prince Telemachus dressed them down: 
"Fools, you're out of your minds! No hiding it, 
food and wine have gone to your heads. Some god 
has got your blood up. Come, now you've eaten well 
go home to bed — when the spirit moves, that is. 
/, for one, I'll drive no guest away." 

So he declared. And they all bit their lips, 
amazed the prince could speak with so much daring. 
At last Amphinomus rose to take the floor, 
the noted son of Nisus, King Aretias' grandson. 
"Fair enough, my friends; when a man speaks well 
we have no grounds for wrangling, no cause for abuse. 
Hands off the stranger! And any other servant 
in King Odysseus' palace. Come, steward, 
pour first drops for the god in every cup; 
let's make libations, then go home to bed. 
The stranger? Leave him here in Odysseus' halls 
and have his host, Telemachus, tend him well — 
it's the prince's royal house the man has reached." 

So he said. His proposal pleased them all. 
And gallant Mulius, a herald of Dulichion, 
a friend-in-arms of lord Amphinomus too, 
mixed the men a bowl and, hovering closely, 
poured full rounds for all. They tipped cups 
to the blissful gods and then, libations made, 
they drank the heady wine to their hearts' content 
and went their ways to bed, each suitor to his house. 



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Penelope and 
Her Guest 



X hat left the great Odysseus waiting in his hall 
as Athena helped him plot the slaughter of the suitors. 
He turned at once to Telemachus, brisk with orders: 
"Now we must stow the weapons out of reach, my boy, 
all the arms and armor — and when the suitors miss them 
and ask you questions, put them off with a winning story: 
'I stowed them away, clear of the smoke. A far cry 
from the arms Odysseus left when he went to Troy, 
fire-damaged equipment, black with reeking fumes. 
And a god reminded me of something darker too. 
When you're in your cups a quarrel might break out, 
you'd wound each other, shame your feasting here 
and cast a pall on your courting. 
Iron has powers to draw a man to ruin.' " 



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Telemachus did his father's will at once, 
calling out to his old nurse Eurycleia: "Quick, 
dear one, close the women up in their own quarters, 
till I can stow my father's weapons in the storeroom. 
Splendid gear, lying about, neglected, black with soot 
since father sailed away. I was only a boy then. 
Now I must safeguard them from the smoke." 



20 



"High time, child," the loving nurse replied. 
"If only you'd bother to tend your whole house 
and safeguard all your treasures. Tell me, 
who's to fetch and carry the torch for you? 
You won't let out the maids who'd light your way." 



"Our friend here will," Telemachus answered coolly. 
"I won't put up with a man who shirks his work, 
not if he takes his ration from my stores, 
even if he's miles away from home." 



30 



That silenced the old nurse. 
She barred the doors that led from the long hall — 
and up they sprang, Odysseus and his princely son, 
and began to carry off the helmets, studded shields 
and pointed spears, and Pallas Athena strode before them, 
lifting a golden lamp that cast a dazzling radiance round about. 
"Father," Telemachus suddenly burst out to Odysseus, 
"oh what a marvel fills my eyes! Look, look there — 
all the sides of the hall, the handsome crossbeams, 
pinewood rafters, the tall columns towering — 
all glow in my eyes like flaming fire! 
Surely a god is here — 
one of those who rule the vaulting skies!" 



40 



"Quiet," his father, the old soldier, warned him. 
"Get a grip on yourself. No more questions now. 
It's just the way of the gods who rule Olympus. 
Off you go to bed. I'll stay here behind 
to test the women, test your mother too. 



392 homer: the odyssey 

She in her grief will ask me everything I know." 

Under the flaring torchlight, through the hall 
Telemachus made his way to his own bedroom now, 
where he always went when welcome sleep came on him. 
There he lay tonight as well, till Dawn's first light. 
That left the great king still waiting in his hall 
as Athena helped him plot the slaughter of the suitors . . . 

Now down from her chamber came reserved Penelope, 
looking for all the world like Artemis or golden Aphrodite. 
Close to the fire her women drew her favorite chair 
with its whorls of silver and ivory, inlaid rings. 
The craftsman who made it years ago, Icmalius, 
added a footrest under the seat itself, 
mortised into the frame, 
and over it all was draped a heavy fleece. 
Here Penelope took her place, discreet, observant. 
The women, arms bared, pressing in from their quarters, 
cleared away the tables, the heaped remains of the feast 
and the cups from which the raucous lords had drunk. 
Raking embers from the braziers onto the ground, 
they piled them high again with seasoned wood, 
providing light and warmth. 

And yet again 
Melantho lashed out at Odysseus: "You still here? — 
you pest, slinking around the house all night, 
leering up at the women? 

Get out, you tramp — be glad of the food you got — 
or we'll sling a torch at you, rout you out at once!" 

A killing glance, and the old trooper countered, 
"What's possessed you, woman? Why lay into me? Such abuse! 
Just because I'm filthy, because I wear such rags, 
roving round the country, living hand-to-mouth. 
But it's fate that drives me on: 
that's the lot of beggars, homeless drifters. 
I too once lived in a lofty house that men admired; 



[46-75] 



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70 



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rolling in wealth, I'd often give to a vagabond like myself, 

whoever he was, whatever need had brought him to my door. 

And crowds of servants I had, and lots of all it takes 

to live the life of ease, to make men call you rich. 

But Zeus ruined it all — god's will, no doubt. 

So beware, woman, or one day you may lose it all, 

all your glitter that puts your work-mates in the shade. 

Or your mistress may just fly in a rage and dress you down 

or Odysseus may return — there's still room for hope! 

Or if he's dead as you think and never coming home, 

well there's his son, Telemachus . . . 

like father, like son — thanks to god Apollo. 

No women's wildness here in the house escapes 

the prince's eye. He's come of age at last." 

So he warned, and alert Penelope heard him, 
wheeled on the maid and tongue -lashed her smartly: 
"Make no mistake, you brazen, shameless bitch, 
none of your ugly work escapes me either — 
you will pay for it with your life, you will! 
How well you knew — you heard from my own lips — 
that I meant to probe this stranger in our house 
and ask about my husband . . . my heart breaks for him." 

She turned to her housekeeper Eurynome and said, 
"Now bring us a chair and spread it soft with fleece, 
so our guest can sit and tell me his whole story 
and hear me out as well. 
I'd like to ask him questions, point by point." 

Eurynome bustled off to fetch a polished chair 
and set it down and spread it soft with fleece. 
Here Odysseus sat, the man of many trials, 
as cautious Penelope began the conversation: 
"Stranger, let me start our questioning myself . . . 
Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents?" 

"My good woman," Odysseus, master of craft, replied, 



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"no man on the face of the earth could find fault with you. 

Your fame, believe me, has reached the vaulting skies. 

Fame like a flawless king's who dreads the gods, 

who governs a kingdom vast, proud and strong — 

who upholds justice, true, and the black earth 

bears wheat and barley, trees bow down with fruit 

and the sheep drop lambs and never fail and the sea 

teems with fish — thanks to his decent, upright rule, 

and under his sovereign sway the people flourish. 

So then, here in your house, ask me anything else 

but don't, please, search out my birth, my land, 

or you'll fill my heart to overflowing even more 

as I bring back the past . . . 

I am a man who's had his share of sorrows. 

It's wrong for me, in someone else's house, 

to sit here moaning and groaning, sobbing so — 

it makes things worse, this grieving on and on. 

One of your maids, or you yourself, might scold me, 

think it's just the wine that had doused my wits 

and made me drown in tears." 

"No, no, stranger," wise Penelope demurred, 
"whatever form and feature I had, what praise I'd won, 
the deathless gods destroyed that day the Achaeans 
sailed away to Troy, my husband in their ships, 
Odysseus — if he could return to tend my life 
the renown I had would only grow in glory. 
Now my life is torment . . . 

look at the griefs some god has loosed against me! 
All the nobles who rule the islands round about, 
Dulichion, Same, and wooded Zacynthus too, 
and all who lord it in sunny Ithaca itself — 
they court me against my will, they lay waste my house. 
So I pay no heed to strangers, suppliants at my door, 
not even heralds out on their public errands here — 
I yearn for Odysseus, always, my heart pines away. 
They rush the marriage on, and I spin out my wiles. 
A god from the blue it was inspired me first 



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to set up a great loom in our royal halls 

and I began to weave, and the weaving finespun, 

the yarns endless, and I would lead them on: 'Young men, 

my suitors, now that King Odysseus is no more, 

go slowly, keen as you are to marry me, until 

I can finish off this web . . . 

so my weaving won't all fray and come to nothing. 160 

This is a shroud for old lord Laertes, for that day 

when the deadly fate that lays us out at last will take him down. 

I dread the shame my countrywomen would heap upon me, 

yes, if a man of such wealth should lie in state 

without a shroud for cover.' 

My very words, 
and despite their pride and passion they believed me. 
So by day I'd weave at my great and growing web — 
by night, by the light of torches set beside me, 
I would unravel all I'd done. Three whole years 

I deceived them blind, seduced them with this scheme. no 

Then, when the wheeling seasons brought the fourth year on 
and the months waned and the long days came round once more, 
then, thanks to my maids — the shameless, reckless creatures — 
the suitors caught me in the act, denounced me harshly. 
So I finished it off. Against my will. They forced me. 
And now I cannot escape a marriage, nor can I contrive 
a deft way out. My parents urge me to tie the knot 
and my son is galled as they squander his estate — 
he sees it all. He's a grown man by now, equipped 
to tend to his own royal house and tend it well: iso 

Zeus grants my son that honor . . . 
But for all that — now tell me who you are. 
Where do you come from? You've hardly sprung 
from a rock or oak like some old man of legend." 

The master improviser answered, slowly, 
"My lady . . . wife of Laertes' son, Odysseus, 
will your questions about my family never end? 
All right then. Here's my story. Even though 
it plunges me into deeper grief than I feel now. 



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But that's the way of the world, when one has been 
so far from home, so long away as I, roving over 
many cities of men, enduring many hardships. 

Still, 
my story will tell you all you need to know. 

There is a land called Crete . . . 
ringed by the wine-dark sea with rolling whitecaps — 
handsome country, fertile, thronged with people 
well past counting — boasting ninety cities, 
language mixing with language side-by-side. 
First come the Achaeans, then the native Cretans, 
hardy, gallant in action, then Cydonian clansmen, 
Dorians living in three tribes, and proud Pelasgians last. 
Central to all their cities is magnificent Cnossos, 
the site where Minos ruled and each ninth year 
conferred with almighty Zeus himself. Minos, 
father of my father, Deucalion, that bold heart. 
Besides myself Deucalion sired Prince Idomeneus, 
who set sail for Troy in his beaked ships of war, 
escorting Atreus' sons. My own name is Aethon. 
I am the younger-born; 
my older brother's a better man than I am. 
Now, it was there in Cnossos that I saw him . . . 
Odysseus — and we traded gifts of friendship. 
A heavy gale had landed him on our coast, 
driven him way off course, rounding Malea's cape 
when he was bound for Troy. He anchored in Amnisus, 
hard by the goddess' cave of childbirth and labor, 
that rough harbor — barely riding out the storm. 
He came into town at once, asking for Idomeneus, 
claiming to be my brother's close, respected friend. 
Too late. Ten or eleven days had already passed 
since he set sail for Troy in his beaked ships. 
So I took Odysseus back to my own house, 
gave him a hero's welcome, treated him in style — 
stores in our palace made for princely entertainment. 
As for his comrades, all who'd shipped with him, 



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I dipped into public stock to give them barley, 

ruddy wine and fine cattle for slaughter, 

beef to their hearts' content. A dozen days 

they stayed with me there, those brave Achaeans, 

penned up by a North Wind so stiff that a man, 230 

even on dry land, could never keep his feet — 

some angry spirit raised that blast, I'd say. 

Then on the thirteenth day the wind died down 

and they set sail for Troy." 

Falsehoods all, 
but he gave his falsehoods all the ring of truth. 
As she listened on, her tears flowed and soaked her cheeks 
as the heavy snow melts down from the high mountain ridges, 
snow the West Wind piles there and the warm East Wind thaws 
and the snow, melting, swells the rivers to overflow their banks — 
so she dissolved in tears, streaming down her lovely cheeks, 240 

weeping for him, her husband, sitting there beside her. 
Odysseus' heart went out to his grief- stricken wife 
but under his lids his eyes remained stock-still — 
they might have been horn or iron — 
his guile fought back his tears. And she, 
once she'd had her fill of grief and weeping, 
turned again to her guest with this reply: 
"Now, stranger, I think I'll test you, just to see 
if there in your house, with all his friends-in-arms, 
you actually entertained my husband as you say. 250 

Come, tell me what sort of clothing he wore, 
what cut of man was he? 
What of the men who followed in his train?" 

"Ah good woman," 
Odysseus, the great master of subtlety, returned, 
"how hard it is to speak, after so much time 
apart . . . why, some twenty years have passed 
since he left my house and put my land behind him. 
Even so, imagine the man as I portray him — 
I can see him now. 

King Odysseus . . . 
he was wearing a heavy woolen cape, sea-purple, 260 



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in double folds, with a golden brooch to clasp it, 

twin sheaths for the pins, on the face a work of art: 

a hound clenching a dappled fawn in its front paws, 

slashing it as it writhed. All marveled to see it, 

solid gold as it was, the hound slashing, throttling 

the fawn in its death-throes, hoofs flailing to break free. 

I noticed his glossy tunic too, clinging to his skin 

like the thin glistening skin of a dried onion, 

silky, soft, the glint of the sun itself. 

Women galore would gaze on it with relish. 

And this too. Bear it in mind, won't you? 

I've no idea if Odysseus wore these things at home 

or a comrade gave him them as he boarded ship, 

or a host perhaps — the man was loved by many. 

There were few Achaeans to equal him . . . and I? 

I gave him a bronze sword myself, a lined cloak, 

elegant, deep red, and a fringed shirt as well, 

and I saw him off in his long benched ship of war 

in lordly style. 

Something else. He kept a herald 
beside him, a man a little older than himself. 
I'll try to describe him to you, best I can. 
Round-shouldered he was, swarthy, curly-haired. 
His name? Eurybates. And Odysseus prized him 
most of all his men. Their minds worked as one." 

His words renewed her deep desire to weep, 
recognizing the strong clear signs Odysseus offered. 
But as soon as she'd had her fill of tears and grief, 
Penelope turned again to her guest and said, 
"Now, stranger, much as I pitied you before, 
now in my house you'll be my special friend, 
my honored guest. I am the one, myself, 
who gave him the very clothes that you describe. 
I brought them up from the storeroom, folded them neatly, 
fastened the golden brooch to adorn my husband, 
Odysseus — never again will I embrace him, 
striding home to his own native land. 



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A black day it was 

when he took ship to see that cursed city . . . 

Destroy, I call it — I hate to say its name!" 

"Ah my queen," the man of craft assured her, 
"noble wife of Laertes' son, Odysseus, 
ravage no more your lovely face with tears 
or consume your heart with grieving for your husband. 
Not that I'd blame you, ever. Any woman will mourn 
the bridegroom she has lost, lain with in love 
and borne his children too. Even though he 
was no Odysseus — a man like a god, they say. 
But dry your tears and take my words to heart. 
I will tell you the whole truth and hide nothing: 
I have heard Odysseus now, at last, is on his way, 
he's just in reach, in rich Thesprotian country — 
the man is still alive 

and he's bringing home a royal hoard of treasure, 
gifts he won from the people of those parts. 
His crew? He's lost his crew and hollow ship 
on the wine-dark waters off Thrinacia Island. 
Zeus and Helios raged, dead set against Odysseus 
for his men-at-arms had killed the cattle of the Sun, 
so down to the last hand they drowned in crashing seas. 
But not Odysseus, clinging tight to his ship's keel — 
the breakers flung him out onto dry land, on Scheria, 
the land of Phaeacians, close kin to the gods themselves, 
and with all their hearts they prized him like a god, 
showered the man with gifts, and they'd have gladly 
sailed him home unscathed. In fact Odysseus 
would have been here beside you long ago, 
but he thought it the better, shrewder course 
to recoup his fortunes roving through the world. 
At sly profit-turning there's not a man alive 
to touch Odysseus. He's got no rival there. 
So I learned from Phidon, king of Thesprotia, 
who swore to me as he poured libations in his house, 
The ship's hauled down and the shipmates set to sail, 



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to take Odysseus home to native land.' 



But I 



he shipped me off before. A Thesprotian cutter 

chanced to be heading for Dulichion rich in wheat. 

But he showed me all the treasure Odysseus had amassed, 

enough to last a man and ten generations of his heirs — 

so great the wealth stored up for him in the king's vaults! 

But Odysseus, he made clear, was off at Dodona then 340 

to hear the will of Zeus that rustles forth 

from the god's tall leafy oak: how should he return, 

after all the years away, to his own beloved Ithaca, 

openly or in secret? 

And so the man is safe, 
as you can see, and he's coming home, soon, 
he's close, close at hand — 
he won't be severed long from kin and country, 
no, not now. I give you my solemn, binding oath. 
I swear by Zeus, the first, the greatest god — 

by Odysseus' hearth, where I have come for help: 350 

all will come to pass, I swear, exactly as I say. 
True, this very month — just as the old moon dies 
and the new moon rises into life — Odysseus will return!" 

"If only, my friend," reserved Penelope exclaimed, 
"everything you say would come to pass! 
You'd soon know my affection, know my gifts. 
Any man you meet would call you blest. 
But my heart can sense the way it all will go. 
Odysseus, I tell you, is never coming back, 

nor will you ever gain your passage home, 360 

for we have no masters in our house like him 
at welcoming in or sending off an honored guest. 
Odysseus. There was a man, or was he all a dream? 
But come, women, wash the stranger and make his bed, 
with bedding, blankets and lustrous spreads to keep him warm 
till Dawn comes up and takes her golden throne. 
Then, tomorrow at daybreak, bathe him well 
and rub him down with oil, so he can sit beside 



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Telemachus in the hall, enjoy his breakfast there. 

And anyone who offends our guest beyond endurance — 

he defeats himself; he's doomed to failure here, 

no matter how raucously he raves and blusters on. 

For how can you know, my friend, if I surpass 

all women in thoughtfulness and shrewd good sense, 

if I'd allow you to take your meals at hall 

so weatherbeaten, clad in rags and tatters? 

Our lives are much too brief . . . 

If a man is cruel by nature, cruel in action, 

the mortal world will call down curses on his head 

while he is alive, and all will mock his memory after death. 

But then if a man is kind by nature, kind in action, 

his guests will carry his fame across the earth 

and people all will praise him from the heart." 

"Wait, my queen," the crafty man objected, 
"noble wife of Laertes' son, Odysseus — 
blankets and glossy spreads? They're not my style. 
Not from the day I launched out in my long-oared ship 
and the snowy peaks of Crete went fading far astern. 
I'll lie as I've done through sleepless nights before. 
Many a night I've spent on rugged beds afield, 
waiting for Dawn to mount her lovely throne. 
Nor do I pine for any footbaths either. 
Of all the women who serve your household here, 
not one will touch my feet. Unless, perhaps, 
there is some old retainer, the soul of trust, 
someone who's borne as much as I have borne . . . 
I wouldn't mind if she would touch my feet." 

"Dear friend," 
the discreet Penelope replied, "never has any man 
so thoughtful — of all the guests in my palace 
come from foreign parts — been as welcome as you . . . 
so sensible, so apt, is every word you say. 
I have just such an old woman, seasoned, wise, 
who carefully tended my unlucky husband, reared him, 
took him into her arms the day his mother bore him — 



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frail as the woman is, she'll wash your feet. 
Up with you now, my good old Eurycleia, 
come and wash your master's . . . equal in years. 
Odysseus must have feet and hands like his by now — 
hardship can age a person overnight." 

At that name 
the old retainer buried her face in both hands, 410 

burst into warm tears and wailed out in grief, 
"Oh my child, how helpless I am to help you now! 
How Zeus despised you, more than all other men, 
god-fearing man that you were . . . 
Never did any mortal burn the Old Thunderer 
such rich thighbones — offerings charred and choice — 
never as many as you did, praying always to reach 
a ripe old age and raise a son to glory. Now, 
you alone he's robbed of your home-coming day! 

Just so, the women must have mocked my king, 420 

far away, when he'd stopped at some fine house — 
just as all these bitches, stranger, mock you here. 
And because you shrink from their taunts, their wicked barbs, 
you will not let them wash you. The work is mine — 
Icarius' daughter, wise Penelope, bids me now 
and I am all too glad. / will wash your feet, 
both for my own dear queen and for yourself — 
your sorrows wring my heart . . . and why? 
Listen to me closely, mark my words. 

Many a wayworn guest has landed here 430 

but never, I swear, has one so struck my eyes — 
your build, your voice, your feet — you're like Odysseus . . . 
to the life!" 

"Old woman," wily Odysseus countered, 
"that's what they all say who've seen us both. 
We bear a striking resemblance to each other, 
as you have had the wit to say yourself." 

The old woman took up a burnished basin 
she used for washing feet and poured in bowls 
of fresh cold water before she stirred in hot. 



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Odysseus, sitting full in the firelight, suddenly 

swerved round to the dark, gripped by a quick misgiving — 

soon as she touched him she might spot the scar! 

The truth would all come out. 

Bending closer 
she started to bathe her master . . . then, 
in a flash, she knew the scar — 

that old wound 
made years ago by a boar's white tusk when Odysseus 
went to Parnassus, out to see Autolycus and his sons. 
The man was his mother's noble father, one who excelled 
the world at thievery, that and subtle, shifty oaths. 
Hermes gave him the gift, overjoyed by the thighs 
of lambs and kids he burned in the god's honor — 
Hermes the ready partner in his crimes. Now, 
Autolycus once visited Ithaca's fertile land, 
to find his daughter's son had just been born. 
Eurycleia set him down on the old man's knees 
as he finished dinner, urging him, "Autolycus, 
you must find a name for your daughter's darling son. 
The baby comes as the answer to her prayers." 

"You, 
my daughter, and you, my son-in-law," Autolycus returned, 
"give the boy the name I tell you now. Just as I 
have come from afar, creating pain for many — 
men and women across the good green earth — 
so let his name be Odysseus . . . 
the Son of Pain, a name he'll earn in full. 
And when he has come of age and pays his visit 
to Parnassus — the great estate of his mother's line 
where all my treasures lie — I will give him enough 
to cheer his heart, then speed him home to you." 

And so, 
in time, Odysseus went to collect the splendid gifts. 
Autolycus and the sons of Autolycus warmed him in 
with eager handclasps, hearty words of welcome. 
His mother's mother, Amphithea, hugged the boy 
and kissed his face and kissed his shining eyes. 



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Autolycus told his well-bred sons to prepare 
a princely feast. They followed orders gladly, 
herded an ox inside at once, five years old, 
skinned it and split the carcass into quarters, 
deftly cut it in pieces, skewered these on spits, 
roasted all to a turn and served the portions out. 
So all day long till the sun went down they feasted, 
consuming equal shares to their hearts' content. 
Then when the sun had set and night came on 
they turned to bed and took the gift of sleep. 

As soon 
as young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more 
they all moved out for the hunt, hounds in the lead, 
Autolycus' sons and Prince Odysseus in their ranks. 
Climbing Parnassus' ridges, thick with timber, 
they quickly reached the mountain's windy folds 
and just as the sun began to strike the plowlands, 
rising out of the deep calm flow of the Ocean River, 
the beaters came to a wooded glen, the hounds broke, 
hot on a trail, and right behind the pack they came, 
Autolycus' sons — Odysseus out in front now, 
pressing the dogs, brandishing high his spear 
with its long shadow waving. Then and there 
a great boar lay in wait, in a thicket lair so dense 
that the sodden gusty winds could never pierce it, 
nor could the sun's sharp rays invade its depths 
nor a downpour drench it through and through, 
so dense, so dark, and piled with fallen leaves. 
Here, as the hunters closed in for the kill, 
crowding the hounds, the tramp of men and dogs 
came drumming round the boar — he crashed from his lair, 
his razor back bristling, his eyes flashing fire 
and charging up to the hunt he stopped, at bay — 
and Odysseus rushed him first, 
shaking his long spear in a sturdy hand, 
wild to strike but the boar struck faster, 
lunging in on the slant, a tusk thrusting up 
over the boy's knee, gouging a deep strip of flesh 



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but it never hit the bone — 

Odysseus thrust and struck, 
stabbing the beast's right shoulder — 

a glint of bronze — 
the point ripped clean through, and down in the dust he dropped, 
grunting out his breath as his life winged away. 
The sons of Autolycus, working over Odysseus, 
skillfully binding up his open wound — 
the gallant, godlike prince — 
chanted an old spell that stanched the blood 
and quickly bore him home to their father's palace. 
There, in no time, Autolycus and the sons of Autolycus 520 

healed him well and, showering him with splendid gifts, 
sped Odysseus back to his native land, to Ithaca, 
a young man filled with joy. His happy parents, 
his father and noble mother, welcomed him home 
and asked him of all his exploits, blow-by-blow: 
how did he get that wound? He told his tale with style, 
how the white tusk of a wild boar had gashed his leg, 
hunting on Parnassus with Autolycus and his sons . . . 

That scar — 
as the old nurse cradled his leg and her hands passed down 
she felt it, knew it, suddenly let his foot fall — 530 

down it dropped in the basin — the bronze clanged, 
tipping over, spilling water across the floor. 
Joy and torment gripped her heart at once, 
tears rushed to her eyes — voice choked in her throat 
she reached for Odysseus' chin and whispered quickly, 
"Yes, yes! you are Odysseus — oh dear boy — 
I couldn't know you before . . . 
not till I touched the body of my king!" 

She glanced at Penelope, keen to signal her 
that here was her own dear husband, here and now, 540 

but she could not catch the glance, she took no heed, 
Athena turned her attention elsewhere. But Odysseus — 
his right hand shot out, clutching the nurse's throat, 
with his left he hugged her to himself and muttered, 



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"Nurse, you want to kill me? You suckled me yourself 

at your own breast — and now I'm home, at last, 

after bearing twenty years of brutal hardship, 

home, on native ground. But now you know, 

now that a god has flashed it in your mind, 

quiet! not a word to anyone in the house. 

Or else, I warn you — and I mean business too — 

if a god beats down these brazen suitors at my hands, 

I will not spare you — my old nurse that you are — 

when I kill the other women in my house." 

"Child," shrewd old Eurycleia protested, 
"what nonsense you let slip through your teeth! 
You know me — I'm stubborn, never give an inch — 
I'll keep still as solid rock or iron. 
One more thing. Take it to heart, I tell you. 
If a god beats down these brazen suitors at your hands, 
I'll report in full on the women in your house: 
who are disloyal to you, who are guiltless." 

"Nurse," the cool tactician Odysseus said, 
"why bother to count them off? A waste of breath. 
I'll observe them, judge each one myself. 
Just be quiet. Keep your tales to yourself. 
Leave the rest to the gods." 

Hushed so, 
the old nurse went padding along the halls 
to fetch more water — her basin had all spilled — 
and once she'd bathed and rubbed him down with oil, 
Odysseus drew his chair up near the fire again, 
trying to keep warm, 

but he hid his scar beneath his beggar's rags 
as cautious Penelope resumed their conversation: 
"My friend, I have only one more question for you, 
something slight, now the hour draws on for welcome sleep- 
for those who can yield to sweet repose, that is, 
heartsick as they are. As for myself, though, 
some god has sent me pain that knows no bounds. 



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All day long I indulge myself in sighs and tears 580 

as I see to my tasks, direct the household women. 

When night falls and the world lies lost in sleep, 

I take to my bed, my heart throbbing, about to break, 

anxieties swarming, piercing — I may go mad with grief. 

Like Pandareus' daughter, the nightingale in the green woods 

lifting her lovely song at the first warm rush of spring, 

perched in the treetops' rustling leaves and pouring forth 

her music shifting, trilling and sinking, rippling high to burst 

in grief for Itylus, her beloved boy, King Zethus' son 

whom she in innocence once cut down with bronze ... 590 

so my wavering heart goes shuttling, back and forth: 

Do I stay beside my son and keep all things secure — 

my lands, my serving-women, the grand high-roofed house — 

true to my husband's bed, the people's voice as well? 

Or do I follow, at last, the best man who courts me 

here in the halls, who gives the greatest gifts? 

My son — when he was a boy and lighthearted — 

urged me not to marry and leave my husband's house. 

But now he has grown and reached his young prime, 

he begs me to leave our palace, travel home. 600 

Telemachus, so obsessed with his own estate, 

the wealth my princely suitors bleed away. 

But please, 
read this dream for me, won't you? Listen closely . . . 
I keep twenty geese in the house, from the water trough 
they come and peck their wheat — I love to watch them all. 
But down from a mountain swooped this great hook-beaked eagle, 
yes, and he snapped their necks and killed them one and all 
and they lay in heaps throughout the halls while he, 
back to the clear blue sky he soared at once. 

But / wept and wailed — only a dream, of course — 610 

and our well-groomed ladies came and clustered round me, 
sobbing, stricken: the eagle killed my geese. But down 
he swooped again and settling onto a jutting rafter 
called out in a human voice that dried my tears, 
'Courage, daughter of famous King Icarius! 
This is no dream but a happy waking vision, 



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real as day, that will come true for you. 
The geese were your suitors — I was once the eagle 
but now I am your husband, back again at last, 
about to launch a terrible fate against them all!' 
So he vowed, and the soothing sleep released me. 
I peered around and saw my geese in the house, 
pecking at their wheat, at the same trough 
where they always took their meal." 

"Dear woman," 
quick Odysseus answered, "twist it however you like, 
your dream can only mean one thing. Odysseus 
told you himself — he'll make it come to pass. 
Destruction is clear for each and every suitor; 
not a soul escapes his death and doom." 

"Ah my friend," seasoned Penelope dissented, 
"dreams are hard to unravel, wayward, drifting things — 
not all we glimpse in them will come to pass . . . 
Two gates there are for our evanescent dreams, 
one is made of ivory, the other made of horn. 
Those that pass through the ivory cleanly carved 
are will-o'-the-wisps, their message bears no fruit. 
The dreams that pass through the gates of polished horn 
are fraught with truth, for the dreamer who can see them. 
But I can't believe my strange dream has come that way, 
much as my son and I would love to have it so. 
One more thing I'll tell you — weigh it well. 
The day that dawns today, this cursed day, 
will cut me off from Odysseus' house. Now, 
I mean to announce a contest with those axes, 
the ones he would often line up here inside the hall, 
twelve in a straight unbroken row like blocks to shore a keel, 
then stand well back and whip an arrow through the lot. 
Now I will bring them on as a trial for my suitors. 
The hand that can string the bow with greatest ease, 
that shoots an arrow clean through all twelve axes — 
he's the man I follow, yes, forsaking this house 
where I was once a bride, this gracious house 



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so filled with the best that life can offer — 
I shall always remember it, that I know . . . 
even in my dreams." 

"Oh my queen," 
Odysseus, man of exploits, urged her on, 
"royal wife of Laertes' son, Odysseus, now, 
don't put off this test in the halls a moment. 
Before that crew can handle the polished bow, 
string it taut and shoot through all those axes — 
Odysseus, man of exploits, will be home with you!" 

"If only, my friend," the wise Penelope replied, 
"you were willing to sit beside me in the house, 
indulging me in the comfort of your presence, 
sleep would never drift across my eyes. 
But one can't go without his sleep forever. 
The immortals give each thing its proper place 
in our mortal lives throughout the good green earth. 
So now I'm going back to my room upstairs 
and lie down on my bed, 

that bed of pain my tears have streaked, year in, 
year out, from the day Odysseus sailed away to see . . . 
Destroy, I call it — I hate to say its name! 
There I'll rest, while you lie here in the hall, 
spreading your blankets somewhere on the floor, 
or the women will prepare a decent bed." 

With that 
the queen went up to her lofty well-lit room 
and not alone: her women followed close behind. 
Penelope, once they reached the upper story, 
fell to weeping for Odysseus, her beloved husband, 
till watchful Athena sealed her eyes with welcome sleep. 



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BOOK TWENTY 




Portents Gather 



o, 



'ff in the entrance-hall the great king made his bed, 
spreading out on the ground the raw hide of an ox, 
heaping over it fleece from sheep the suitors 
butchered day and night, then Eurynome threw 
a blanket over him, once he'd nestled down. 
And there Odysseus lay . . . 
plotting within himself the suitors' death — 
awake, alert, as the women slipped from the house, 
the maids who whored in the suitors' beds each night, 
tittering, linking arms and frisking as before. 
The master's anger rose inside his chest, 
torn in thought, debating, head and heart — 
should he up and rush them, kill them one and all 
or let them rut with their lovers one last time? 
The heart inside him growled low with rage, 



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BOOK 20: PORTENTS GATHER 



411 



as a bitch mounting over her weak, defenseless puppies 

growls, facing a stranger, bristling for a showdown — 

so he growled from his depths, hackles rising at their outrage. 

But he struck his chest and curbed his fighting heart: 

"Bear up, old heart! You've borne worse, far worse, 

that day when the Cyclops, man-mountain, bolted 

your hardy comrades down. But you held fast — 

Nobody but your cunning pulled you through 

the monster's cave you thought would be your death." 



20 



So he forced his spirit into submission, 
the rage in his breast reined back — unswerving, 
all endurance. But he himself kept tossing, turning, 
intent as a cook before some white-hot blazing fire 
who rolls his sizzling sausage back and forth, 
packed with fat and blood — keen to broil it quickly, 
tossing, turning it, this way, that way — so he cast about: 
how could he get these shameless suitors in his clutches, 
one man facing a mob? . . . when close to his side she came, 
Athena sweeping down from the sky in a woman's build 
and hovering at his head, the goddess spoke: 
"Why still awake? The unluckiest man alive! 
Here is your house, your wife at home, your son, 
as fine a boy as one could hope to have." 

"True," 
the wily fighter replied, "how right you are, goddess, 
but still this worry haunts me, heart and soul — 
how can I get these shameless suitors in my clutches? 
Single-handed, braving an army always camped inside. 
There's another worry, that haunts me even more. 
What if I kill them — thanks to you and Zeus — 
how do I run from under their avengers? 
Show me the way, I ask you." 

"Impossible man!" 
Athena bantered, the goddess' eyes ablaze. 
"Others are quick to trust a weaker comrade, 
some poor mortal, far less cunning than I. 
But I am a goddess, look, the very one who 



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guards you in all your trials to the last. 

I tell you this straight out: 

even if fifty bands of mortal fighters 

closed around us, hot to kill us off in battle, 

still you could drive away their herds and sleek flocks! 

So, surrender to sleep at last. What a misery, 

keeping watch through the night, wide awake — 

you'll soon come up from under all your troubles." 

With that she showered sleep across his eyes 
and back to Olympus went the lustrous goddess. 
As soon as sleep came on him, loosing his limbs, 
slipping the toils of anguish from his mind, 
his devoted wife awoke and, 
sitting up in her soft bed, returned to tears. 
When the queen had wept to her heart's content 
she prayed to the Huntress, Artemis, first of all: 
"Artemis — goddess, noble daughter of Zeus, if only 
you'd whip an arrow through my breast and tear my life out, 
now, at once! Or let some whirlwind pluck me up 
and sweep me away along those murky paths and 
fling me down where the Ocean River running 
round the world rolls back upon itself! 

Quick 
as the whirlwinds swept away Pandareus' daughters — 
years ago, when the gods destroyed their parents, 
leaving the young girls orphans in their house. 
But radiant Aphrodite nursed them well 
on cheese and luscious honey and heady wine, 
and Hera gave them beauty and sound good sense, 
more than all other women — virgin Artemis made them tall 
and Athena honed their skills to fashion lovely work. 
But then, when Aphrodite approached Olympus' peaks 
to ask for the girls their crowning day as brides 
from Zeus who loves the lightning — Zeus who knows all, 
all that's fated, all not fated, for mortal man — 
then the storm spirits snatched them away 



60 



70 



80 



and passed them on to the hateful Furies, 
yes, for all their loving care. 

Just so 
may the gods who rule Olympus blot me out! 
Artemis with your glossy braids, come shoot me dead — 
so I can plunge beneath this loathsome earth 
with the image of Odysseus vivid in my mind. 
Never let me warm the heart of a weaker man! 
Even grief is bearable, true, when someone weeps 
through the days, sobbing, heart convulsed with pain, 
yet embraced by sleep all night — sweet oblivion, sleep 
dissolving all, the good and the bad, once it seals our eyes — 
but even my dreams torment me, sent by wicked spirits. 
Again — just this night — someone lay beside me . . . 
like Odysseus to the life, when he embarked 
with his men-at-arms. My heart raced with joy. 
No dream, I thought, the waking truth at last!" 

At those words 
Dawn rose on her golden throne in a sudden gleam of light. 
And great Odysseus caught the sound of his wife's cry 
and began to daydream — deep in his heart it seemed 
she stood beside him, knew him, now, at last . . . 
Gathering up the fleece and blankets where he'd slept, 
he laid them on a chair in the hall, he took the oxhide out 
and spread it down, lifted his hands and prayed to Zeus: 
"Father Zeus, if you really willed it so — to bring me 
home over land and sea-lanes, home to native ground 
after all the pain you brought me — show me a sign, 
a good omen voiced by someone awake indoors, 
another sign, outside, from Zeus himself!" 

And Zeus in all his wisdom heard that prayer. 
He thundered at once, out of his clear blue heavens 
high above the clouds, and Odysseus' spirit lifted. 
Then from within the halls a woman grinding grain 
let fly a lucky word. Close at hand she was, 
where the good commander set the handmills once 



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and now twelve women in all performed their tasks, 

grinding the wheat and barley, marrow of men's bones. 

The rest were abed by now — they'd milled their stint — 

this one alone, the frailest of all, kept working on. 

Stopping her mill, she spoke an omen for her master: 

"Zeus, Father! King of gods and men, now there 

was a crack of thunder out of the starry sky — 

and not a cloud in sight! 

Sure it's a sign you're showing someone now. 

So, poor as I am, grant me my prayer as well: 

let this day be the last, the last these suitors 

bolt their groaning feasts in King Odysseus' house 1 

These brutes who break my knees — heart- wrenching labor, 

grinding their grain — now let them eat their last!" 

A lucky omen, linked with Zeus's thunder. 
Odysseus' heart leapt up, the man convinced 
he'd grind the scoundrels' lives out in revenge. 

By now 
the other maids were gathering in Odysseus' royal palace, 
raking up on the hearth the fire still going strong. 
Telemachus climbed from bed and dressed at once, 
brisk as a young god — 

over his shoulder he slung his well- honed sword, 
he fastened rawhide sandals under his smooth feet, 
he seized his tough spear tipped with a bronze point 
and took his stand at the threshold, calling Eurycleia: 
"Dear nurse, how did you treat the stranger in our house? 
With bed and board? Or leave him to lie untended? 
That would be mother's way — sensible as she is — 
all impulse, doting over some worthless stranger, 
turning a good man out to face the worst." 

"Please, child," his calm old nurse replied, 
"don't blame her — your mother's blameless this time. 
He sat and drank his wine till he'd had his fill. 
Food? He'd lost his hunger. But she asked him. 



120 



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150 



And when it was time to think of turning in, 
she told the maids to spread a decent bed, but he — 
so down-and-out, poor soul, so dogged by fate — 
said no to snuggling into a bed, between covers. 
No sir, the man lay down in the entrance-hall, 
on the raw hide of an ox and sheep's fleece, 
and we threw a blanket over him, so we did." 

Hearing that, 
Telemachus strode out through the palace, spear in hand, 
and a pair of sleek hounds went trotting at his heels. 
He made for the meeting grounds to join the island lords 
while Eurycleia the daughter of Ops, Pisenor's son, 
that best of women, gave the maids their orders: 
"Quick now, look alive, sweep out the house, 
wet down the floors! 

You, those purple coverlets, 
fling them over the fancy chairs! 

All those tables, 
sponge them down — scour the winebowls, burnished cups! 
The rest — now off you go to the spring and fetch some water, 
fast as your legs can run! 

Our young gallants won't be long from the palace, 
they'll be bright and early — today's a public feast." 

They hung on her words and ran to do her bidding. 
Full twenty scurried off to the spring's dark water, 
others bent to the housework, all good hands. 
Then in they trooped, the strutting serving-men, 
who split the firewood cleanly now as the women 
bustled in from the spring, the swineherd at their heels, 
driving three fat porkers, the best of all his herds. 
And leaving them to root in the broad courtyard, 
up he went to Odysseus, hailed him warmly: 
"Friend, do the suitors show you more respect 
or treat you like the dregs of the earth as always?" 

"Good Eumaeus," the crafty man replied, 



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"if only the gods would pay back their outrage! 

Wild and reckless young cubs, conniving here 

in another's house. They've got no sense of shame." 

And now as the two confided in each other, 
the goatherd Melanthius sauntered toward them, 
herding his goats with a pair of drovers' help, 
the pick of his flocks to make the suitors' meal. 
Under the echoing porch he tethered these, then turned 
on Odysseus once again with cutting insults: "Still alive? 
Still hounding your betters, begging round the house? 
Why don't you cart yourself away? Get out! 
We'll never part, I swear, 
till we taste each other's fists. Riffraff, 
you and your begging make us sick! Get out — 
we're hardly the only banquet on the island." 

No reply. The wily one just shook his head, 
silent, his mind churning with thoughts of bloody work . 

Third to arrive was Philoetius, that good cowherd, 
prodding in for the crowd a heifer and fat goats. 
Boatmen had brought them over from the mainland, 
crews who ferry across all travelers too, 
whoever comes for passage. 

Under the echoing porch he tethered all heads well 
and then approached the swineherd, full of questions: 
"Who's this stranger, Eumaeus, just come to the house? 
What roots does the man claim — who are his people? 
Where are his blood kin? his father's fields? 
Poor beggar. But what a build — a royal king's! 
Ah, once the gods weave trouble into our lives 
they drive us across the earth, they drown us all in pain, 
even kings of the realm." 

And with that thought 
he walked up to Odysseus, gave him his right hand 
and winged a greeting: "Cheers, old friend, old father, 
here's to your luck, great days from this day on — 



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saddled now as you are with so much trouble! 

Father Zeus, no god's more deadly than you. 

No mercy for men, you give them life yourself 

then plunge them into misery, brutal hardship. 

I broke into sweat, my friend, when I first saw you — 

see, my eyes still brim with tears, remembering him, 

Odysseus ... He must wear such rags, I know it, 

knocking about, drifting through the world 

if he's still alive and sees the light of day. 

If he's dead already, lost in the House of Death, 

my heart aches for Odysseus, my great lord and master. 

He set me in charge of his herds, in Cephallenian country, 

when I was just a youngster. How they've grown by now, 

past counting! No mortal on earth could breed 

a finer stock of oxen — broad in the brow, 

they thrive like ears of corn. But just look, 

these interlopers tell me to drive them in 

for their own private feasts. Not a thought 

for the young prince in the house, they never flinch — 

no regard for the gods' wrath — in their mad rush 

to carve up his goods, my master gone so long! 

I'm tossed from horn to horn in my own mind . . . 

What a traitor I'd be, with the prince alive, 

if I'd run off to some other country, herds and all, 

to a new set of strangers. Ah, but isn't it worse 

to hold out here, tending the herds for upstarts, 

not their owners — suffering all the pains of hell? 

I could have fled, ages ago, to some great king 

who'd give me shelter. It's unbearable here. 

True, but I still dream of my old master, 

unlucky man — if only he'd drop in from the blue 

and drive these suitors all in a rout throughout the halls!" 

"Cowherd," the cool tactician Odysseus answered, 
"you're no coward, and nobody's fool, I'd say. 
Even I can see there's sense in that old head. 
So I tell you this on my solemn, binding oath: 
I swear by Zeus, the first of all the gods — 



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BOOK 20: PORTENTS GATHER 



by the table of hospitality waiting for us, 
by Odysseus' hearth where I have come for help, 
Odysseus will come home while you're still here. 
You'll see with your own eyes, if you have the heart, 
these suitors who lord it here cut down in blood." 

"Stranger, if only," the cowherd cried aloud, 
"if only Zeus would make that oath come true — 
you'd see my power, my fighting arms in action!" 

Eumaeus echoed his prayer to all the gods 
that their wise king would soon come home again. 

Now as they spoke and urged each other on, 
and once more the suitors were plotting certain doom 
for the young prince — suddenly, banking high on the left 
an omen flew past, an eagle clutching a trembling dove. 
And Amphinomus rose in haste to warn them all, 
"My friends, we'll never carry off this plot 
to kill the prince. Let's concentrate on feasting." 

His timely invitation pleased them all. 
The suitors ambled into Odysseus' royal house 
and flinging down their cloaks on a chair or bench, 
they butchered hulking sheep and fatted goats, 
full-grown hogs and a young cow from the herd. 
They roasted all the innards, served them round 
and filled the bowls with wine and mixed it well. 
Eumaeus passed out cups; Philoetius, trusty herdsman, 
brought on loaves of bread in ample wicker trays; 
Melanthius poured the wine. The whole company 
reached out for the good things that lay at hand. 

Telemachus, maneuvering shrewdly, sat his father down 
on the stone threshold, just inside the timbered hall, 
and set a rickety stool and cramped table there. 
He gave him a share of innards, poured his wine 



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in a golden cup and added a bracing invitation: 

"Now sit right there. Drink your wine with the crowd. 

I'll defend you from all their taunts and blows, 

these young bucks. This is no public place, 

this is Odysseus ' house — 

my father won it for me, so it's mine. 

You suitors, control yourselves. No insults now, 

no brawling, no, or it's war between us all." 

So he declared. And they all bit their lips, 
amazed the prince could speak with so much daring. 
Only Eupithes' son Antinous ventured, 
"Fighting words, but do let's knuckle under — 
to our prince. Such abuse, such naked threats! 
But clearly Zeus has foiled us. Or long before 
we would have shut his mouth for him in the halls, 
fluent and flowing as he is." 

So he mocked. 
Telemachus paid no heed. 

And now through the streets 
the heralds passed, leading the beasts marked out 
for sacrifice on Apollo's grand festal day, 
and the islanders with their long hair were filing 
into the god's shady grove — the distant deadly Archer. 

Those in the palace, once they'd roasted the prime cuts, 
pulled them off the spits and, sharing out the portions, 
fell to the royal feast . . . 

The men who served them gave Odysseus his share, 
fair as the helping they received themselves. 
So Telemachus ordered, the king's own son. 

But Athena had no mind to let the brazen suitors 
hold back now from their heart-rending insults — 
she meant to make the anguish cut still deeper 
into the core of Laertes' son Odysseus. 
There was one among them, a lawless boor — 



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Ctesippus was his name, he made his home in Same, 
a fellow so impressed with his own astounding wealth 
he courted the wife of Odysseus, gone for years. 
Now the man harangued his swaggering comrades: 
"Listen to me, my fine friends, here's what / say! 
From the start our guest has had his fair share — 
it's only right, you know. 
How impolite it would be, how wrong to scant 
whatever guest Telemachus welcomes to his house. 
Look here, I'll give him a proper guest-gift too, 
a prize he can hand the crone who bathes his feet 
or a tip for another slave who haunts the halls 
of our great king Odysseus!" 

On that note, 
grabbing an oxhoof out of a basket where it lay, 
with a brawny hand he flung it straight at the king — 
but Odysseus ducked his head a little, dodging the blow, 
and seething just as the oxhoof hit the solid wall 
he clenched his teeth in a wry sardonic grin. 
Telemachus dressed Ctesippus down at once: 
"Ctesippus, you can thank your lucky stars 
you missed our guest — he ducked your blow, by god! 
Else I would have planted my sharp spear in your bowels- 
your father would have been busy with your funeral, 
not your wedding here. Enough. 
Don't let me see more offenses in my house, 
not from anyone! I'm alive to it all, now, 
the good and the bad — the boy you knew is gone. 
But I still must bear with this, this lovely sight . . . 
sheepflocks butchered, wine swilled, food squandered — 
how can a man fight off so many single-handed? 
But no more of your crimes against me, please! 
Unless you're bent on cutting me down, now, 
and I'd rather die, yes, better that by far 
than have to look on at your outrage day by day: 
guests treated to blows, men dragging the serving-women 
through our noble house, exploiting them all, no shame!" 



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350 



Dead quiet. The suitors all fell silent, hushed. 
At last Damastor's son Agelaus rose and said, 
"Fair enough, my friends; when a man speaks well 
we have no grounds for wrangling, no cause for abuse. 
Hands off this stranger! Or any other servant 
in King Odysseus' palace. But now a word 
of friendly advice for Telemachus and his mother — 
here's hoping it proves congenial to them both. 
So long as your hearts still kept a spark alive 
that Odysseus would return — that great, deep man — 
who could blame you, playing the waiting game at home 
and holding off the suitors? The better course, it's true. 
What if Odysseus had returned, had made it home at last? 
But now it's clear as day— the man will come no more. 
So go, Telemachus, sit with your mother, coax her 
to wed the best man here, the one who offers most, 
so you can have and hold your father's estate, 
eating and drinking here, your mind at peace 
while mother plays the wife in another's house." 

The young prince, keeping his poise, replied, 
"I swear by Zeus, Agelaus, by all my father suffered— 
dead, no doubt, or wandering far from Ithaca these days — 
I don't delay my mother's marriage, not a moment, 
I press her to wed the man who takes her heart. 
I'll shower her myself with boundless gifts. 
But I shrink from driving mother from our house, 
issuing harsh commands against her will. 
God forbid it ever comes to that!" 

So he vowed 
and Athena set off uncontrollable laughter in the suitors, 
crazed them out of their minds— mad, hysterical laughter 
seemed to break from the jaws of strangers, not their own, 
and the meat they were eating oozed red with blood — 
tears flooded their eyes, hearts possessed by grief. 
The inspired seer Theoclymenus wailed out in their midst, 
"Poor men, what terror is this that overwhelms you so? 



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Night shrouds your heads, your faces, down to your knees — 
cries of mourning are bursting into fire — cheeks rivering tears — 
the walls and the handsome crossbeams dripping dank with blood! 
Ghosts, look, thronging the entrance, thronging the court, 
go trooping down to the realm of death and darkness! 
The sun is blotted out of the sky — look there — 
a lethal mist spreads all across the earth!" 

At that 
they all broke into peals of laughter aimed at the seer — 
Polybus' son Eurymachus braying first and foremost, 
"Our guest just in from abroad, the man is raving! 
Quick, my boys, hustle him out of the house, 
into the meeting grounds, the light of day — 
everything here he thinks is dark as night!" 



400 



"Eurymachus," the inspired prophet countered, 
"when I want your escort, I'll ask for it myself. 
I have eyes and ears, and both my feet, still, 
and a head that's fairly sound, 
nothing to be ashamed of. These will do 
to take me past those doors . . . 

Oh I can see it now— 
the disaster closing on you all! There's no escaping it, 
no way out — not for a single one of you suitors, 
wild reckless fools, plotting outrage here, 
the halls of Odysseus, great and strong as a god!" 



410 



With that he marched out of the sturdy house 
and went home to Piraeus, the host who warmed him in. 
Now all the suitors, trading their snide glances, started 
heckling Telemachus, made a mockery of his guests. 
One or another brash young gallant scoffed, 
"Telemachus, no one's more unlucky with his guests!" 



420 



"Look what your man dragged in — this mangy tramp 
scraping for bread and wine!" 

"Not fit for good hard work, 



[379-94] 

the bag of bones — " 



BOOK 20: PORTENTS GATHER 



423 



"A useless dead weight on the land!" 



"And then this charlatan up and apes the prophet." 

"Take it from me — you'll be better off by far — 
toss your friends in a slave-ship — " 

"Pack them off 
to Sicily, fast — they'll fetch you one sweet price!" 

So they jeered, but the prince paid no attention . . . 
silent, eyes riveted on his father, always waiting 
the moment he'd lay hands on that outrageous mob. 

And all the while Icarius' daughter, wise Penelope, 
had placed her carved chair within earshot, at the door, 
so she could catch each word they uttered in the hall. 
Laughing rowdily, men prepared their noonday meal, 
succulent, rich — they'd butchered quite a herd. 
But as for supper, what could be less enticing 
than what a goddess and a powerful man 
would spread before them soon? A groaning feast — 
for they'd been first to plot their vicious crimes. 



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BOOK TWENTY-ONE 




Odysseus Strings 
His Bow 



JL he time had come. The goddess Athena with her blazing eyes 
inspired Penelope, Icarius' daughter, wary, poised, 
to set the bow and the gleaming iron axes out 
before her suitors waiting in Odysseus' hall — 
to test their skill and bring their slaughter on. 
Up the steep stairs to her room she climbed 
and grasped in a steady hand the curved key — 
fine bronze, with ivory haft attached — 
and then with her chamber-women made her way 
to a hidden storeroom, far in the palace depths, 
and there they lay, the royal master's treasures: 
bronze, gold and a wealth of hard wrought iron 
and there it lay as well ... his backsprung bow 
with its quiver bristling arrows, shafts of pain. 
Gifts from the old days, from a friend he'd met 



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BOOK 21: ODYSSEUS STRINGS HIS BOW 



425 



in Lacedaemon — Iphitus, Eurytus' gallant son. 

Once in Messene the two struck up together, 

in sly Ortilochus' house, that time Odysseus 

went to collect a debt the whole realm owed him, 

for Messenian raiders had lifted flocks from Ithaca, 20 

three hundred head in their oarswept ships, the herdsmen too. 

So his father and island elders sent Odysseus off, 

a young boy on a mission, 

a distant embassy made to right that wrong. 

Iphitus went there hunting the stock that he had lost, 

a dozen mares still nursing their hardy suckling mules. 

The same mares that would prove his certain death 

when he reached the son of Zeus, that iron heart, 

Heracles — the past master of monstrous works — 

who killed the man, a guest in his own house. 30 

Brutal. Not a care for the wrathful eyes of god 

or rites of hospitality he had spread before him, 

no, he dined him, then he murdered him, commandeered 

those hard-hoofed mares for the hero's own grange. 

Still on the trail of these when he met Odysseus, 

Iphitus gave him the bow his father, mighty Eurytus, 

used to wield as a young man, but when he died 

in his lofty house he left it to his son. 

In turn, Odysseus gave his friend a sharp sword 

and a rugged spear to mark the start of friendship, 40 

treasured ties that bind. But before they got to know 

the warmth of each other's board, the son of Zeus 

had murdered Iphitus, Eurytus' magnificent son 

who gave the prince the bow. 

That great weapon — 
King Odysseus never took it abroad with him 
when he sailed off to war in his long black ships. 
He kept it stored away in his stately house, 
guarding the memory of a cherished friend, 
and only took that bow on hunts at home. 

Now, 
the lustrous queen soon reached the hidden vault 50 

and stopped at the oaken doorsill, work an expert 



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sanded smooth and trued to the line some years ago, 

planting the doorjambs snugly, hanging shining doors. 

At once she loosed the thong from around its hook, 

inserted the key and aiming straight and true, 

shot back the bolts — and the rasping doors groaned 

as loud as a bull will bellow, champing grass at pasture. 

So as the key went home those handsome double doors 

rang out now and sprang wide before her. 

She stepped onto a plank where chests stood tall, 

brimming with clothing scented sweet with cedar. 

Reaching, tiptoe, lifting the bow down off its peg, 

still secure in the burnished case that held it, 

down she sank, laying the case across her knees, 

and dissolved in tears with a high thin wail 

as she drew her husband's weapon from its sheath . . . 

Then, having wept and sobbed to her heart's content, 

off she went to the hall to meet her proud admirers, 

cradling her husband's backsprung bow in her arms, 

its quiver bristling arrows, shafts of pain. 

Her women followed, bringing a chest that held 

the bronze and the iron axes, trophies won by the master. 

That radiant woman, once she reached her suitors, 

drawing her glistening veil across her cheeks, 

paused now where a column propped the sturdy roof, 

with one of her loyal handmaids stationed either side, 

and delivered an ultimatum to her suitors: 

"Listen to me, my overbearing friends! 

You who plague this palace night and day, 

drinking, eating us out of house and home 

with the lord and master absent, gone so long — 

the only excuse that you can offer is your zest 

to win me as your bride. So, to arms, my gallants! 

Here is the prize at issue, right before you, look — 

I set before you the great bow of King Odysseus now! 

The hand that can string this bow with greatest ease, 

that shoots an arrow clean through all twelve axes — 

he is the man I follow, yes, forsaking this house 

where I was once a bride, this gracious house 



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so filled with the best that life can offer — 

I shall always remember it, that I know . . . 

even in my dreams." 

She turned to Eumaeus, 

ordered the good swineherd now to set the bow 

and the gleaming iron axes out before the suitors. 

He broke into tears as he received them, laid them down. 

The cowherd wept too, when he saw his master's bow. 

But Antinous wheeled on both and let them have it: 

"Yokels, fools — you can't tell night from day! 

You mawkish idiots, why are you sniveling here? 

You're stirring up your mistress! Isn't she drowned 

in grief already? She's lost her darling husband. 

Sit down. Eat in peace, or take your snuffling 

out of doors! But leave that bow right here — 

our crucial test that makes or breaks us all. 

No easy game, I wager, to string his polished bow. 

Not a soul in the crowd can match Odysseus— 
what a man he was . . . 
I saw him once, remember him to this day, 
though I was young and foolish way back then." 

Smooth talk, 
but deep in the suitor's heart his hopes were bent 
on stringing the bow and shooting through the axes. 
Antinous — fated to be the first man to taste 
an arrow whipped from great Odysseus' hands, 
the king he mocked, at ease in the king's house, 
egging comrades on to mock him too. 

"Amazing!" 
Prince Telemachus waded in with a laugh: 
"Zeus up there has robbed me of my wits. 
My own dear mother, sensible as she is, 
says she'll marry again, forsake our house, 
and look at we— laughing for all I'm worth, 
giggling like some fool. Step up, my friends! 
Here is the prize at issue, right before you, look— 
a woman who has no equal now in all Achaean country, 
neither in holy Pylos, nor in Argos or Mycenae, 



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not even Ithaca itself or the loamy mainland. 

You know it well. Why sing my mother's praises? 

Come, let the games begin! No dodges, no delays, 

no turning back from the stringing of the bow — 

we'll see who wins, we will. 

I'd even take a crack at the bow myself . . . 

If I string it and shoot through all the axes, 

I'd worry less if my noble mother left our house 

with another man and left me here behind — man enough 

at last to win my father's splendid prizes!" 

With that 
he leapt to his feet and dropped his bright red cloak, 
slipping the sword and sword-belt off his shoulders. 
First he planted the axes, digging a long trench, 
one for all, and trued them all to a line, 
then tamped the earth to bed them. Wonder took 
the revelers looking on: his work so firm, precise, 
though he'd never seen the axes ranged before. 
He stood at the threshold, poised to try the bow . . . 
Three times he made it shudder, straining to bend it, 
three times his power flagged — but his hopes ran high 
he'd string his father's bow and shoot through every iron 
and now, struggling with all his might for the fourth time, 
he would have strung the bow, but Odysseus shook his head 
and stopped him short despite his tensing zeal. 
"God help me," the inspired prince cried out, 
"must I be a weakling, a failure all my life? 
Unless I'm just too young to trust my hands 
to fight off any man who rises up against me. 
Come, my betters, so much stronger than / am — 
try the bow and finish off the contest." 

He propped his father's weapon on the ground, 
tilting it up against the polished well-hung doors 
and resting a shaft aslant the bow's fine horn, 
then back he went to the seat that he had left. 
"Up, friends!" Antinous called, taking over. 
"One man after another, left to right, 



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[142-73] BOOK 21: ODYSSEUS STRINGS HIS BOW 429 

starting from where the steward pours the wine." 

So Antinous urged and all agreed. 
The first man up was Leodes, Oenops' son, 
a seer who could see their futures in the smoke, 
who always sat by the glowing winebowl, well back, 
the one man in the group who loathed their reckless ways, 
appalled by all their outrage. His turn first . . . 
Picking up the weapon now and the swift arrow, 
he stood at the threshold, poised to try the bow 

but failed to bend it. As soon as he tugged the string 170 

his hands went slack, his soft, uncallused hands, 
and he called back to the suitors, "Friends, 
/ can't bend it. Take it, someone — try. 
Here is a bow to rob our best of life and breath, 
all our best contenders! Still, better be dead 
than live on here, never winning the prize 
that tempts us all — forever in pursuit, 
burning with expectation every day. 
If there's still a suitor here who hopes, 

who aches to marry Penelope, Odysseus' wife, iso 

just let him try the bow; he'll see the truth! 
He'll soon lay siege to another Argive woman 
trailing her long robes, and shower her with gifts — 
and then our queen can marry the one who offers most, 
the man marked out by fate to be her husband." 

With those words he thrust the bow aside, 
tilting it up against the polished well-hung doors 
and resting a shaft aslant the bow's fine horn, 
then back he went to the seat that he had left. 

But Antinous turned on the seer, abuses flying: 190 

"Leodes! what are you saying? what's got past your lips? 
What awful, grisly nonsense — it shocks me to hear it — 
'here is a bow to rob our best of life and breath!' 
Just because you can't string it, you're so weak? 
Clearly your genteel mother never bred her boy 
for the work of bending bows and shooting arrows. 



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We have champions in our ranks to string it quickly. 

Hop to it, Melanthius!" — he barked at the goatherd — 

"Rake the fire in the hall, pull up a big stool, 

heap it with fleece and fetch that hefty ball 

of lard from the stores inside. So we young lords 

can heat and limber the bow and rub it down with grease 

before we try again and finish off the contest!" 

The goatherd bustled about to rake the fire 
still going strong. He pulled up a big stool, 
heaped it with fleece and fetched the hefty ball 
of lard from the stores inside. And the young men 
limbered the bow, rubbing it down with hot grease, 
then struggled to bend it back but failed. No use — 
they fell far short of the strength the bow required. 
Antinous still held off, dashing Eurymachus too, 
the ringleaders of all the suitors, 
head and shoulders the strongest of the lot. 

But now 
the king's two men, the cowherd and the swineherd, 
had slipped out of the palace side-by-side 
and great Odysseus left the house to join them. 
Once they were past the courtyard and the gates 
he probed them deftly, surely: "Cowherd, swineherd, 
what, shall I blurt this out or keep it to myself? 
No, speak out. The heart inside me says so. 
How far would you go to fight beside Odysseus? 
Say he dropped like that from a clear blue sky 
and a god brought him back — 
would you fight for the suitors or your king? 
Tell me how you feel inside your hearts." 

"Father Zeus," the trusty cowherd shouted, 
"bring my prayer to pass! Let the master come — 
some god guide him now! You'd see my power, 
my fighting arms in action!" 

Eumaeus echoed his prayer to all the gods 



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that their wise king would soon come home again. 
Certain at least these two were loyal to the death, 
Odysseus reassured them quickly: "I'm right here, 
here in the flesh — myself — and home at last, 
after bearing twenty years of brutal hardship. 
Now I know that of all my men you two alone 
longed for my return. From the rest I've heard 
not one real prayer that I come back again. 
So now I'll tell you what's in store for you. 
If a god beats down the lofty suitors at my hands, 
I'll find you wives, both of you, grant you property, 
sturdy houses beside my own, and in my eyes you'll be 
comrades to Prince Telemachus, brothers from then on. 
Come, I'll show you something — living proof — 
know me for certain, put your minds at rest. 

This scar, 
look, where a boar's white tusk gored me, years ago, 
hunting on Parnassus, Autolycus' sons and I." 

With that, 
pushing back his rags, he revealed the great scar . . . 
And the men gazed at it, scanned it, knew it well, 
broke into tears and threw their arms around their master- 
lost in affection, kissing his head and shoulders, 
and so Odysseus kissed their heads and hands. 
Now the sun would have set upon their tears 
if Odysseus had not called a halt himself. 
"No more weeping. Coming out of the house 
a man might see us, tell the men inside. 
Let's slip back in — singly, not in a pack. 
I'll go first. You're next. Here's our signal. 
When all the rest in there, our lordly friends, 
are dead against my having the bow and quiver, 
good Eumaeus, carry the weapon down the hall 
and put it in my hands. Then tell the serving- women 
to lock the snugly fitted doors to their own rooms. 
If anyone hears from there the jolting blows 
and groans of men, caught in our huge net, 
not one of them show her face — 



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sit tight, keep to her weaving, not a sound. 
You, my good Philoetius, here are your orders. 
Shoot the bolt of the courtyard's outer gate, 
lock it, lash it fast." 

With that command 
the master entered his well-constructed house 
and back he went to the stool that he had left. 
The king's two men, in turn, slipped in as well. 

Just now Eurymachus held the bow in his hands, 
turning it over, tip to tip, before the blazing fire 
to heat the weapon. But he failed to bend it even so 
and the suitor's high heart groaned to bursting. 
"A black day," he exclaimed in wounded pride, 
"a blow to myself, a blow to each man here! 
It's less the marriage that mortifies me now — 
that's galling too, but lots of women are left, 
some in seagirt Ithaca, some in other cities. 
What breaks my heart is the fact we fall so short 
of great Odysseus' strength we cannot string his bow. 
A disgrace to ring in the ears of men to come." 

"Eurymachus," Eupithes' son Antinous countered, 
"it will never come to that, as you well know. 
Today is a feast-day up and down the island 
in honor of the Archer God. Who flexes bows today? 
Set it aside. Rest easy now. And all the axes, 
let's just leave them planted where they are. 
Trust me, no one's about to crash the gates 
of Laertes' son and carry off these trophies. 
Steward, pour some drops for the god in every cup, 
we'll tip the wine, then put the bow to bed. 
And first thing in the morning have Melanthius 
bring the pick of his goats from all his herds 
so we can burn the thighs to Apollo, god of archers — 
then try the bow and finish off the contest." 

Welcome advice. And again they all agreed. 



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Heralds sprinkled water over their hands for rinsing, 
the young men brimmed the mixing bowls with wine, 
they tipped first drops for the god in every cup, 
then poured full rounds for all. And now, once 
they'd tipped libations out and drunk their fill, 
the king of craft, Odysseus, said with all his cunning, 
"Listen to me, you lords who court the noble queen. 
I have to say what the heart inside me urges. 
I appeal especially to Eurymachus, and you, 
brilliant Antinous, who spoke so shrewdly now. 
Give the bow a rest for today, leave it to the gods — 
at dawn the Archer God will grant a victory 
to the man he favors most. 

For the moment, 
give me the polished bow now, won't you? So, 
to amuse you all, I can try my hand, my strength . . . 
is the old force still alive inside these gnarled limbs? 
Or has a life of roaming, years of rough neglect, 
destroyed it long ago?" 

Modest words 
that sent them all into hot, indignant rage, 
fearing he just might string the polished bow. 
So Antinous rounded on him, dressed him down: 
"Not a shred of sense in your head, you filthy drifter! 
Not content to feast at your ease with us, the island's pride? 
Never denied your full share of the banquet, never, 
you can listen in on our secrets. No one else 
can eavesdrop on our talk, no tramp, no beggar. 
The wine has overpowered you, heady wine — 
the ruin of many another man, whoever 
gulps it down and drinks beyond his limit. 
Wine — it drove the Centaur, famous Eurytion, 
mad in the halls of lionhearted Pirithous. 
There to visit the Lapiths, crazed with wine 
the headlong Centaur bent to his ugly work 
in the prince's own house! His hosts sprang up, 
seized with fury, dragged him across the forecourt, 
flung him out of doors, hacking his nose and ears off 



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with their knives, no mercy. The creature reeled away, 
still blind with drink, his heart like a wild storm, 
loaded with all the frenzy in his mind! 

And so 
the feud between mortal men and Centaurs had its start. 
But the drunk was first to bring disaster on himself 
by drowning in his cups. You too, I promise you 
no end of trouble if you should string that bow. 
You'll meet no kindness in our part of the world — 
we'll sail you off in a black ship to Echetus, 
the mainland king who wrecks all men alive. 
Nothing can save you from his royal grip! 
So drink, but hold your peace, 
don't take on the younger, stronger men." 

"Antinous," watchful Penelope stepped in, 
"how impolite it would be, how wrong, to scant 
whatever guest Telemachus welcomes to his house. 
You really think — if the stranger trusts so to his hands 
and strength that he strings Odysseus' great bow — 
he'll take me home and claim me as his bride? 
He never dreamed of such a thing, I'm sure. 
Don't let that ruin the feast for any reveler here. 
Unthinkable — nothing, nothing could be worse." 

Polybus' son Eurymachus had an answer: 
"Wise Penelope, daughter of Icarius, do we really 
expect the man to wed you? Unthinkable, I know. 
But we do recoil at the talk of men and women. 
One of the island's meaner sort will mutter, 
'Look at the riffraff courting a king's wife. 
Weaklings, look, they can't even string his bow. 
But along came this beggar, drifting out of the blue — 
strung his bow with ease and shot through all the axes!' 
Gossip will fly. We'll hang our heads in shame." 

"Shame?" alert Penelope protested — 



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"How can you hope for any public fame at all? 

You who disgrace, devour a great man's house and home! 

Why hang your heads in shame over next to nothing? 

Our friend here is a strapping, well-built man 

and claims to be the son of a noble father. 

Come, hand him the bow now, let's just see . . . 

I tell you this — and I'll make good my word — 

if he strings the bow and Apollo grants him glory, 

I'll dress him in shirt and cloak, in handsome clothes, 

I'll give him a good sharp lance to fight off men and dogs, 

give him a two-edged sword and sandals for his feet 

and send him off, wherever his heart desires." 

"Mother," 
poised Telemachus broke in now, "my father's bow — 
no Achaean on earth has more right than I 
to give it or withhold it, as I please. 
Of all the lords in Ithaca's rocky heights 
or the islands facing Elis grazed by horses, 
not a single one will force or thwart my will, 
even if I decide to give our guest this bow — 
a gift outright — to carry off himself. 

So, mother, 
go back to your quarters. Tend to your own tasks, 
the distaff and the loom, and keep the women 
working hard as well. As for the bow now, 
men will see to that, but I most of all: 
/ hold the reins of power in this house." 

Astonished, 
she withdrew to her own room. She took to heart 
the clear good sense in what her son had said. 
Climbing up to the lofty chamber with her women, 
she fell to weeping for Odysseus, her beloved husband, 
till watchful Athena sealed her eyes with welcome sleep. 

And now the loyal swineherd had lifted up the bow, 
was taking it toward the king, when all the suitors 
burst out in an ugly uproar through the palace — 



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brash young bullies, this or that one heckling, 
"Where on earth are you going with that bow?" 

"You, you grubby swineherd, are you crazy?" 

"The speedy dogs you reared will eat your corpse — ' 

"Out there with your pigs, out in the cold, alone!" 

"If only Apollo and all the gods shine down on us!" 

Eumaeus froze in his tracks, put down the bow, 
panicked by every outcry in the hall. 
Telemachus shouted too, from the other side, 
and full of threats: "Carry on with the bow, old boy! 
If you serve too many masters, you'll soon suffer. 
Look sharp, or I'll pelt you back to your farm 
with flying rocks. I may be younger than you 
but I'm much stronger. If only I had that edge 
in fists and brawn over all this courting crowd, 
I'd soon dispatch them — licking their wounds at last — 
clear of our palace where they plot their vicious plots!" 

His outburst sent them all into gales of laughter, 
blithe and oblivious, that dissolved their pique 
against the prince. The swineherd took the bow, 
carried it down the hall to his ready, waiting king 
and standing by him, placed it in his hands, 
then he called the nurse aside and whispered, 
"Good Eurycleia — Telemachus commands you now 
to lock the snugly fitted doors to your own rooms. 
If anyone hears from there the jolting blows 
and groans of men, caught in our huge net, 
not one of you show your face — 
sit tight, keep to your weaving, not a sound." 

That silenced the old nurse — 
she barred the doors that led from the long hall. 



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The cowherd quietly bounded out of the house 
to lock the gates of the high-stockaded court. 
Under the portico lay a cable, ship's tough gear: 
he lashed the gates with this, then slipped back in 
and ran and sat on the stool that he'd just left, 
eyes riveted on Odysseus. 

Now he held the bow 
in his own hands, turning it over, tip to tip, 440 

testing it, this way, that way . . . fearing worms 
had bored through the weapon's horn with the master gone abroad. 
A suitor would glance at his neighbor, jeering, taunting, 
"Look at our connoisseur of bows!" 

"Sly old fox- 
maybe he's got bows like it, stored in his house." 

"That or he's bent on making one himself." 

"Look how he twists and turns it in his hands!" 

"The clever tramp means trouble — " 

"I wish him luck," some cocksure lord chimed in, 
"as good as his luck in bending back that weapon!" 450 

So they mocked, but Odysseus, mastermind in action, 
once he'd handled the great bow and scanned every inch, 
then, like an expert singer skilled at lyre and song — 
who strains a string to a new peg with ease, 
making the pliant sheep-gut fast at either end — 
so with his virtuoso ease Odysseus strung his mighty bow. 
Quickly his right hand plucked the string to test its pitch 
and under his touch it sang out clear and sharp as a swallow's cry. 
Horror swept through the suitors, faces blanching white, 
and Zeus cracked the sky with a bolt, his blazing sign, 460 

and the great man who had borne so much rejoiced at last 
that the son of cunning Cronus flung that omen down for him. 
He snatched a winged arrow lying bare on the board — 
the rest still bristled deep inside the quiver, 



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soon to be tasted by all the feasters there. 

Setting shaft on the handgrip, drawing the notch 

and bowstring back, back . . . right from his stool, 

just as he sat but aiming straight and true, he let fly — 

and never missing an ax from the first ax-handle 

clean on through to the last and out 470 

the shaft with its weighted brazen head shot free! 

"My son," 
Odysseus looked to Telemachus and said, "your guest, 
sitting here in your house, has not disgraced you. 
No missing the mark, look, and no long labor spent 
to string the bow. My strength's not broken yet, 
not quite so frail as the mocking suitors thought. 
But the hour has come to serve our masters right — 
supper in broad daylight — then to other revels, 
song and dancing, all that crowns a feast." 

He paused with a warning nod, and at that sign 480 

Prince Telemachus, son of King Odysseus, 
girding his sharp sword on, clamping hand to spear, 
took his stand by a chair that flanked his father — 
his bronze spearpoint glinting now like fire . . . 



BOOK TWENTY-TWO 




Slaughter in 
the Hall 



No 



I ow stripping back his rags Odysseus master of craft and battle 
vaulted onto the great threshold, gripping his bow and quiver 
bristling arrows, and poured his flashing shafts before him, 
loose at his feet, and thundered out to all the suitors: 
"Look — your crucial test is finished, now, at last! 
But another target's left that no one's hit before — 
we'll see if I can hit it — Apollo give me glory!" 

With that he trained a stabbing arrow on Antinous . . . 
just lifting a gorgeous golden loving-cup in his hands, 
just tilting the two-handled goblet back to his lips, 
about to drain the wine — and slaughter the last thing 
on the suitor's mind: who could dream that one foe 
in that crowd of feasters, however great his power, 
would bring down death on himself, and black doom? 



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Il5~i2] 



But Odysseus aimed and shot Antinous square in the throat 
and the point went stabbing clean through the soft neck and out — 
and off to the side he pitched, the cup dropped from his grasp 
as the shaft sank home, and the man's life-blood came spurting 
out his nostrils — 

thick red jets — 

a sudden thrust of his foot — 
he kicked away the table — 

food showered across the floor, 
the bread and meats soaked in a swirl of bloody filth. 
The suitors burst into uproar all throughout the house 
when they saw their leader down. They leapt from their seats, 
milling about, desperate, scanning the stone walls — 
not a shield in sight, no rugged spear to seize. 
They wheeled on Odysseus, lashing out in fury: 
"Stranger, shooting at men will cost your life!" 



20 



"Your game is over — you, you've shot your last!" 
"You'll never escape your own headlong death!" 
"You killed the best in Ithaca — our fine prince!" 



30 



"Vultures will eat your corpse!" 

Groping, frantic — 
each one persuading himself the guest had killed 
the man by chance. Poor fools, blind to the fact 
that all their necks were in the noose, their doom sealed. 
With a dark look, the wily fighter Odysseus shouted back, 
"You dogs! you never imagined I'd return from Troy — 
so cocksure that you bled my house to death, 
ravished my serving-women — wooed my wife 
behind my back while I was still alive! 
No fear of the gods who rule the skies up there, 
no fear that men's revenge might arrive someday — 
now all your necks are in the noose — your doom is sealed!' 



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Terror gripped them all, blanched their faces white, 



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each man glancing wildly — how to escape his instant death? 

Only Eurymachus had the breath to venture, "If you, 

you're truly Odysseus of Ithaca, home at last, 

you're right to accuse these men of what they've done — 

so much reckless outrage here in your palace, 

so much on your lands. But here he lies, 

quite dead, and he incited it all — Antinous — 

look, the man who drove us all to crime! 

Not that he needed marriage, craved it so; 

he'd bigger game in mind — though Zeus barred his way — 

he'd lord it over Ithaca's handsome country, king himself, 

once he'd lain in wait for your son and cut him down! 

But now he's received the death that he deserved. 

So spare your own people! Later we'll recoup 

your costs with a tax laid down upon the land, 

covering all we ate and drank inside your halls, 

and each of us here will pay full measure too — 

twenty oxen in value, bronze and gold we'll give 

until we melt your heart. Before we've settled, 

who on earth could blame you for your rage?" 



50 



60 



But the battle-master kept on glaring, seething. 
"No, Eurymachus! Not if you paid me all your father's wealth — 
all you possess now, and all that could pour in from the world's end — 
no, not even then would I stay my hands from slaughter 
till all you suitors had paid for all your crimes! 
Now life or death — your choice — fight me or flee 

if you hope to escape your sudden bloody doom! 70 

I doubt one man in the lot will save his skin!" 



His menace shook their knees, their hearts too 
but Eurymachus spoke again, now to the suitors: "Friends! 
This man will never restrain his hands, invincible hands — 
now that he's seized that polished bow and quiver, look, 
he'll shoot from the sill until he's killed us all! 
So fight — call up the joy of battle! Swords out! 
Tables lifted — block his arrows winging death! 
Charge him, charge in a pack — 



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try to rout the man from the sill, the doors, 

race through town and sound an alarm at once — 

our friend would soon see he's shot his bolt!" 

Brave talk — 
he drew his two-edged sword, bronze, honed for the kill 
and hurled himself at the king with a raw savage cry 
in the same breath that Odysseus loosed an arrow 
ripping his breast beside the nipple so hard 
it lodged in the man's liver — 

Out of his grasp the sword dropped to the ground — 
over his table, head over heels he tumbled, doubled up, 
flinging his food and his two-handled cup across the floor — 
he smashed the ground with his forehead, writhing in pain, 
both feet flailing out, and his high seat tottered — 
the mist of death came swirling down his eyes. 

Amphinomus rushed the king in all his glory, 
charging him face-to-face, a slashing sword drawn — 
if only he could force him clear of the doorway, now, 
but Telemachus— too quick — stabbed the man from behind, 
plunging his bronze spear between the suitor's shoulders 
and straight on through his chest the point came jutting out — 
down he went with a thud, his forehead slammed the ground. 
Telemachus swerved aside, leaving his long spearshaft 
lodged in Amphinomus — fearing some suitor just might 
lunge in from behind as he tugged the shaft, 
impale him with a sword or hack him down, 
crouching over the corpse. 
He went on the run, reached his father at once 
and halting right beside him, let fly, "Father — 
now I'll get you a shield and a pair of spears, 
a helmet of solid bronze to fit your temples! 
I'll arm myself on the way back and hand out 
arms to the swineherd, arm the cowherd too — 
we'd better fight equipped!" 

"Run, fetch them," 
the wily captain urged, "while I've got arrows left 
to defend me — or they'll force me from the doors 



[76-107] 



80 



90 



100 



110 



[107-40] BOOK 22: SLAUGHTER IN THE HALL 443 

while I fight on alone!" 

Telemachus moved to his father's orders smartly. 
Off he ran to the room where the famous arms lay stored, 
took up four shields, eight spears, four bronze helmets 
ridged with horsehair crests and, loaded with these, 
ran back to reach his father's side in no time. 120 

The prince was first to case himself in bronze 
and his servants followed suit — both harnessed up 
and all three flanked Odysseus, mastermind of war, 
and he, as long as he'd arrows left to defend himself, 
kept picking suitors off in the palace, one by one 
and down they went, corpse on corpse in droves. 
Then, when the royal archer's shafts ran out, 
he leaned his bow on a post of the massive doors — 
where walls of the hallway catch the light — and armed: 
across his shoulder he slung a buckler four plies thick, 130 

over his powerful head he set a well-forged helmet, 
the horsehair crest atop it tossing, bristling terror, 
and grasped two rugged lances tipped with fiery bronze. 

Now a side-door was fitted into the main wall — 
right at the edge of the great hall's stone sill — 
and led to a passage always shut by good tight boards. 
But Odysseus gave the swineherd strict commands 
to stand hard by the side-door, guard it well — 
the only way the suitors might break out. 

Agelaus called to his comrades with a plan: 140 

"Friends, can't someone climb through the hatch? — 
tell men outside to sound the alarm, be quick — 
our guest would soon see he'd shot his last!" 

The goatherd Melanthius answered, "Not a chance, 
my lord — the door to the courtyard's much too near, 
dangerous too, the mouth of the passage cramped. 
One strong man could block us, one and all! 
No, I'll fetch you some armor to harness on, 
out of the storeroom — there, nowhere else, I'm sure, 



444 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[141-75] 



the king and his gallant son have stowed their arms!" 150 

With that the goatherd clambered up through smoke-ducts 
high on the wall and scurried into Odysseus' storeroom, 
bundled a dozen shields, as many spears and helmets 
ridged with horsehair crests and, loaded with these, 
rushed back down to the suitors, quickly issued arms. 
Odysseus' knees shook, his heart too, when he saw them 
buckling on their armor, brandishing long spears — 
here was a battle looming, well he knew. 
He turned at once to Telemachus, warnings flying: 
"A bad break in the fight, my boy! One of the women's 160 

tipped the odds against us — or could it be the goatherd?" 

"My fault, father," the cool clear prince replied, 
"the blame's all mine. That snug door to the vault, 
I left it ajar — they've kept a better watch than I. 
Go, Eumaeus, shut the door to the storeroom, 
check and see if it's one of the women's tricks 
or Dolius' son Melanthius. He's our man, I'd say." 

And even as they conspired, back the goatherd 
climbed to the room to fetch more burnished arms, 
but Eumaeus spotted him, quickly told his king 170 

who stood close by: "Odysseus, wily captain, 
there he goes again, the infernal nuisance — 
just as we suspected — back to the storeroom. 
Give me a clear command! 
Do I kill the man — if I can take him down — 
or drag him back to you, here, to pay in full 
for the dirty work he's plotted in your house?" 

Odysseus, master of tactics, answered briskly, 
"I and the prince will keep these brazen suitors 

crammed in the hall, for all their battle-fury. iso 

You two wrench Melanthius' arms and legs behind him, 
fling him down in the storeroom — lash his back to a plank 
and strap a twisted cable fast to the scoundrel's body, 



[176-209] 



BOOK 22: SLAUGHTER IN THE HALL 



445 



hoist him up a column until he hits the rafters — 
let him dangle in agony, still alive, 
for a good long time!" 

They hung on his orders, keen to do his will. 
Off they ran to the storeroom, unseen by him inside — 
Melanthius, rummaging after arms, deep in a dark recess 
as the two men took their stand, either side the doorposts, 190 

poised till the goatherd tried to cross the doorsill . . . 
one hand clutching a crested helmet, the other 
an ample old buckler blotched with mildew, 
the shield Laertes bore as a young soldier once — 
but there it lay for ages, seams on the handstraps split — 
Quick, they rushed him, seized him, haled him back by the hair, 
flung him down on the floor, writhing with terror, bound him 
hand and foot with a chafing cord, wrenched his limbs 
back, back till the joints locked tight — 

just as Laertes' cunning son commanded — 200 

they strapped a twisted cable round his body, 
hoisted him up a column until he hit the rafters, 
then you mocked him, Eumaeus, my good swineherd: 
"Now stand guard through the whole night, Melanthius — 
stretched out on a soft bed fit Iot you, your highness! 
You're bound to see the Morning rising up from the Ocean, 
mounting her golden throne — at just the hour you always 
drive in goats to feast the suitors in the hall!" 

So they left him, trussed in his agonizing sling; 
they clapped on armor again, shut the gleaming doors 210 

and ran to rejoin Odysseus, mastermind of war. 
And now as the ranks squared off, breathing fury — 
four at the sill confronting a larger, stronger force 
arrayed inside the hall — now Zeus's daughter Athena, 
taking the build and voice of Mentor, swept in 
and Odysseus, thrilled to see her, cried out, 
"Rescue us, Mentor, now it's life or death! 
Remember your old comrade — all the service 
I offered you! We were boys together!" 



446 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[210-41] 



So he cried 
yet knew in his bones it was Athena, Driver of Armies. 
But across the hall the suitors brayed against her, 
Agelaus first, his outburst full of threats: 
"Mentor, never let Odysseus trick you into 
siding with him to fight against the suitors. 
Here's our plan of action, and we will see it through! 
Once we've killed them both, the father and the son, 
we'll kill you too, for all you're bent on doing 
here in the halls — you'll pay with your own head! 
And once our swords have stopped your violence cold- 
all your property, all in your house, your fields, 
we'll lump it all with Odysseus' rich estate 
and never let your sons live on in your halls 
or free your wife and daughters to walk through town!' 



220 



230 



Naked threats — and Athena hit new heights of rage, 
she lashed out at Odysseus now with blazing accusations: 
"Where's it gone, Odysseus — your power, your fighting heart? 
The great soldier who fought for famous white-armed Helen, 
battling Trojans nine long years — nonstop, no mercy, 
mowing their armies down in grueling battle — 

you who seized the broad streets of Troy 240 

with your fine strategic stroke! How can you — 
now you've returned to your own house, your own wealth — 
bewail the loss of your combat strength in a war with suitors? 
Come, old friend, stand by me! You'll see action now, 
see how Mentor the son of Alcimus, that brave fighter, 
kills your enemies, pays you back for service!" 

Rousing words — 
but she gave no all-out turning of the tide, not yet, 
she kept on testing Odysseus and his gallant son, 
putting their force and fighting heart to proof. 

For all the world like a swallow in their sight 250 

she flew on high to perch 
on the great hall's central roofbeam black with smoke. 



But the suitors closed ranks, commanded now by Damastor's son 



[241-76] 



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447 



Agelaus, flanked by Eurynomus, Demoptolemus and Amphimedon, 

Pisander, Polyctor's son, and Polybus ready, waiting — 

head and shoulders the best and bravest of the lot 

still left to fight for their lives, 

now that the pelting shafts had killed the rest. 

Agelaus spurred his comrades on with battle-plans: 

"Friends, at last the man's invincible hands are useless! 260 

Mentor has mouthed some empty boasts and flitted off — 

just four are left to fight at the front doors. So now, 

no wasting your long spears — all at a single hurl, 

just six of us launch out in the first wave! 

If Zeus is willing, we may hit Odysseus, 

carry off the glory! The rest are nothing 

once the captain's down!" 

At his command, 
concentrating their shots, all six hurled as one 
but Athena sent the whole salvo wide of the mark — 
one of them hit the jamb of the great hall's doors, 270 

another the massive door itself, and the heavy bronze point 
of a third ashen javelin crashed against the wall. 
Seeing his men untouched by the suitors' flurry, 
steady Odysseus leapt to take command: 
"Friends! now it's for us to hurl at them, I say, 
into this ruck of suitors! Topping all their crimes 
they're mad to strip the armor off our bodies!" 



Taking aim at the ranks, all four let fly as one 
and the lances struck home — Odysseus killed Demoptolemus, 
Telemachus killed Euryades — the swineherd, Elatus — 
and the cowherd cut Pisander down in blood. 
They bit the dust of the broad floor, all as one. 
Back to the great hall's far recess the others shrank 
as the four rushed in and plucked up spears from corpses. 



280 



And again the suitors hurled their whetted shafts 
but Athena sent the better part of the salvo wide — 
one of them hit the jamb of the great hall's doors, 
another the massive door itself, and the heavy bronze point 



448 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[276-310] 



of a third ashen javelin crashed against the wall. 

True, Amphimedon nicked Telemachus on the wrist — 290 

the glancing blade just barely broke his skin. 

Ctesippus sent a long spear sailing over 

Eumaeus' buckler, grazing his shoulder blade 

but the weapon skittered off and hit the ground. 

And again those led by the brilliant battle-master 

hurled their razor spears at the suitors' ranks — 

and now Odysseus raider of cities hit Eurydamas, 

Telemachus hit Amphimedon — Eumaeus, Polybus — 

and the cowherd stabbed Ctesippus 

right in the man's chest and triumphed over his body: 300 

"Love your mockery, do you? Son of that blowhard Polytherses! 

No more shooting off your mouth, you idiot, such big talk — 

leave the last word to the gods — they're much stronger! 

Take this spear, this guest-gift, for the cow's hoof 

you once gave King Odysseus begging in his house!" 



So the master of longhorn cattle had his say — 
as Odysseus, fighting at close quarters, ran Agelaus 
through with a long lance — Telemachus speared Leocritus 
so deep in the groin the bronze came punching out his back 
and the man crashed headfirst, slamming the ground full-face. 310 

And now Athena, looming out of the rafters high above them, 
brandished her man-destroying shield of thunder, terrifying 
the suitors out of their minds, and down the hall they panicked — 
wild, like herds stampeding, driven mad as the darting gadfly 
strikes in the late spring when the long days come round. 
The attackers struck like eagles, crook- clawed, hook-beaked, 
swooping down from a mountain ridge to harry smaller birds 
that skim across the flatland, cringing under the clouds 
but the eagles plunge in fury, rip their lives out — hopeless, 
never a chance of flight or rescue — and people love the sport — 320 

so the attackers routed suitors headlong down the hall, 
wheeling into the slaughter, slashing left and right 
and grisly screams broke from skulls cracked open — 
the whole floor awash with blood. 

Leodes now — 



[310-41] 



BOOK 22: SLAUGHTER IN THE HALL 



449 



he flung himself at Odysseus, clutched his knees, 
crying out to the king with a sudden, winging prayer: 
"I hug your knees, Odysseus — mercy! spare my life! 
Never, I swear, did I harass any woman in your house- 
never a word, a gesture — nothing, no, I tried 
to restrain the suitors, whoever did such things. 
They wouldn't listen, keep their hands to themselves — 
so reckless, so they earn their shameful fate. 
But I was just their prophet — 
my hands are clean — and I'm to die their death! 
Look at the thanks I get for years of service!" 



330 



A killing look, and the wry soldier answered, 
"Only a priest, a prophet for this mob, you say? 
How hard you must have prayed in my own house 
that the heady day of my return would never dawn — 
my dear wife would be yours, would bear your children! 
For that there's no escape from grueling death — you die!' 



340 



And snatching up in one powerful hand a sword 
left on the ground — Agelaus dropped it when he fell — 
Odysseus hacked the prophet square across the neck 
and the praying head went tumbling in the dust. 

Now one was left, 
trying still to escape black death. Phemius, Terpis' son, 
the bard who always performed among the suitors — 
they forced the man to sing . . . 
There he stood, backing into the side -door, 
still clutching his ringing lyre in his hands, 
his mind in turmoil, torn — what should he do now? 
Steal from the hall and crouch at the altar-stone 
of Zeus who Guards the Court, where time and again 
Odysseus and Laertes burned the long thighs of oxen? 
Or throw himself on the master's mercy, clasp his knees? 
That was the better way — or so it struck him, yes, 
grasp the knees of Laertes' royal son. And so, 
cradling his hollow lyre, he laid it on the ground 
between the mixing-bowl and the silver-studded throne, 



350 



450 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[342-72] 



[373-404) 



BOOK 22: SLAUGHTER IN THE HALL 



451 



then rushed up to Odysseus, yes, and clutched his knees, 
singing out to his king with a stirring, winged prayer: 
"I hug your knees, Odysseus — mercy! spare my life! 
What a grief it will be to you for all the years to come 
if you kill the singer now, who sings for gods and men. 
I taught myself the craft, but a god has planted 
deep in my spirit all the paths of song — 
songs I'm fit to sing for you as for a god. 
Calm your bloodlust now — don't take my head! 
He'd bear me out, your own dear son Telemachus — 
never of my own will, never for any gain did I 
perform in your house, singing after the suitors 
had their feasts. They were too strong, too many — 
they forced me to come and sing — I had no choice!" 

The inspired Prince Telemachus heard his pleas 
and quickly said to his father close beside him, 
"Stop, don't cut him down! This one's innocent. 
So is the herald Medon — the one who always 
tended me in the house when I was little — 
spare him too. Unless he's dead by now, 
killed by Philoetius or Eumaeus here — 
or ran into you rampaging through the halls." 

The herald pricked up his anxious ears at that . . . 
cautious soul, he cowered, trembling, under a chair — 
wrapped in an oxhide freshly stripped — to dodge black death. 
He jumped in a flash from there, threw off the smelly hide 
and scuttling up to Telemachus, clutching his knees, 
the herald begged for life in words that fluttered: 
"Here I am, dear boy — spare me! Tell your father, 
flushed with victory, not to kill me with his sword — 
enraged as he is with these young lords who bled 
his palace white and showed you no respect, 
the reckless fools!" 

Breaking into a smile 
the canny Odysseus reassured him, "Courage! 
The prince has pulled you through, he's saved you now 



360 



370 



380 



390 



so you can take it to heart and tell the next man too: 

clearly doing good puts doing bad to shame. 

Now leave the palace, go and sit outside — 

out in the courtyard, clear of the slaughter — 

you and the bard with all his many songs. 

Wait till I've done some household chores 400 

that call for my attention." 

The two men scurried out of the house at once 
and crouched at the altar-stone of mighty Zeus — 
glancing left and right, 
fearing death would strike at any moment. 

Odysseus scanned his house to see if any man 
still skulked alive, still hoped to avoid black death. 
But he found them one and all in blood and dust . . . 
great hauls of them down and out like fish that fishermen 
drag from the churning gray surf in looped and coiling nets 410 

and fling ashore on a sweeping hook of beach — some noble catch 
heaped on the sand, twitching, lusting for fresh salt sea 
but the Sungod hammers down and burns their lives out . . . 
so the suitors lay in heaps, corpse covering corpse. 
At last the seasoned fighter turned to his son: 
"Telemachus, go, call the old nurse here — 
I must tell her all that's on my mind." 

Telemachus ran to do his father's bidding, 
shook the women's doors, calling Eurycleia: 

"Come out now! Up with you, good old woman! 420 

You who watch over all the household hands — 
quick, my father wants you, needs to have a word!" 

Crisp command that left the old nurse hushed — 
she spread the doors to the well-constructed hall, 
slipped out in haste, and the prince led her on . . . 
She found Odysseus in the thick of slaughtered corpses, 
splattered with bloody filth like a lion that's devoured 
some ox of the field and lopes home, covered with blood, 



452 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[405-38] 



[439-72] 



BOOK 22! SLAUGHTER IN THE HALL 



453 



his chest streaked, both jaws glistening, dripping red — 

a sight to strike terror. So Odysseus looked now, 

splattered with gore, his thighs, his fighting hands, 

and she, when she saw the corpses, all the pooling blood, 

was about to lift a cry of triumph — here was a great exploit, 

look — but the soldier held her back and checked her zeal 

with warnings winging home: "Rejoice in your heart, 

old woman — peace! No cries of triumph now. 

It's unholy to glory over the bodies of the dead. 

These men the doom of the gods has brought low, 

and their own indecent acts. They'd no regard 

for any man on earth — good or bad — 

who chanced to come their way. And so, thanks 

to their reckless work, they met this shameful fate. 

Quick, report in full on the women in my halls — 

who are disloyal to me, who are guiltless?" 

"Surely, child," 
his fond old nurse replied, "now here's the truth. 
Fifty women you have inside your house, 
women we've trained to do their duties well, 
to card the wool and bear the yoke of service. 
Some dozen in all went tramping to their shame, 
thumbing their noses at me, at the queen herself! 
And Telemachus, just now come of age — his mother 
would never let the boy take charge of the maids. 
But let me climb to her well-lit room upstairs 
and tell your wife the news — 
some god has put the woman fast asleep." 

"Don't wake her yet," the crafty man returned, 
"you tell those women to hurry here at once — 
just the ones who've shamed us all along." 

Away the old nurse bustled through the house 
to give the women orders, rush them to the king. 
Odysseus called Telemachus over, both herdsmen too, 
with strict commands: "Start clearing away the bodies. 
Make the women pitch in too. Chairs and tables — 



430 



440 



450 



460 



scrub them down with sponges, rinse them clean. 

And once you've put the entire house in order, 

march the women out of the great hall — between 

the roundhouse and the courtyard's strong stockade — 

and hack them with your swords, slash out all their lives — 

blot out of their minds the joys of love they relished 

under the suitors' bodies, rutting on the sly!" 470 

The women crowded in, huddling all together . . . 
wailing convulsively, streaming live warm tears. 
First they carried out the bodies of the dead 
and propped them under the courtyard colonnade, 
standing them one against another. Odysseus 
shouted commands himself, moving things along, 
and they kept bearing out the bodies — they were forced. 
Next they scrubbed down the elegant chairs and tables, 
washed them with sopping sponges, rinsed them clean. 
Then Telemachus and the herdsmen scraped smooth 480 

the packed earth floor of the royal house with spades 
as the women gathered up the filth and piled it outside. 
And then, at last, once the entire house was put in order, 
they marched the women out of the great hall — between 
the roundhouse and the courtyard's strong stockade — 
crammed them into a dead end, no way out from there, 
and stern Telemachus gave the men their orders: 
"No clean death for the likes of them, by god! 
Not from me — they showered abuse on my head, 
my mother's too! 

You sluts — the suitors' whores!" 490 

With that, taking a cable used on a dark-prowed ship 
he coiled it over the roundhouse, lashed it fast to a tall column, 
hoisting it up so high no toes could touch the ground. 
Then, as doves or thrushes beating their spread wings 
against some snare rigged up in thickets — flying in 
for a cozy nest but a grisly bed receives them — 
so the women's heads were trapped in a line, 
nooses yanking their necks up, one by one 



454 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[472-501] 



so all might die a pitiful, ghastly death . . . 
they kicked up heels for a little — not for long. 

Melanthius? 
They hauled him out through the doorway, into the court, 
lopped his nose and ears with a ruthless knife, 
tore his genitals out for the dogs to eat raw 
and in manic fury hacked off hands and feet. 

Then, 
once they'd washed their own hands and feet, 
they went inside again to join Odysseus. 
Their work was done with now. 
But the king turned to devoted Eurycleia, saying, 
"Bring sulfur, nurse, to scour all this pollution — 
bring me fire too, so I can fumigate the house. 
And call Penelope here with all her women — 
tell all the maids to come back in at once." 

"Well said, my boy," his old nurse replied, 
"right to the point. But wait, 
let me fetch you a shirt and cloak to wrap you. 
No more dawdling round the palace, nothing but rags 
to cover those broad shoulders — it's a scandal!" 

"Fire first," the good soldier answered. 
"Light me a fire to purify this house." 

The devoted nurse snapped to his command, 
brought her master fire and brimstone. Odysseus 
purged his palace, halls and court, with cleansing fumes. 

Then back through the royal house the old nurse went 
to tell the women the news and bring them in at once. 
They came crowding out of their quarters, torch in hand, 
flung their arms around Odysseus, hugged him, home at last, 
and kissed his head and shoulders, seized his hands, and he, 
overcome by a lovely longing, broke down and wept . . . 
deep in his heart he knew them one and all. 



BOOK TWENTY-THREE 



500 



510 



520 




The Great 
Rooted Bed 

Up to the rooms the old nurse clambered, chuckling all the way, 
to tell the queen her husband was here now, home at last. 
Her knees bustling, feet shuffling over each other, 
till hovering at her mistress' head she spoke: 
"Penelope — child — wake up and see for yourself, 
with your own eyes, all you dreamed of, all your days! 
He's here — Odysseus — he's come home, at long last! 
He's killed the suitors, swaggering young brutes 
who plagued his house, wolfed his cattle down, 
rode roughshod over his son!" 

"Dear old nurse," wary Penelope replied, 
"the gods have made you mad. They have that power, 
putting lunacy into the clearest head around 



10 



455 



456 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[13-45] 



[46-75] 



BOOK 23: THE GREAT ROOTED BED 



457 



or setting a half-wit on the path to sense. 

They've unhinged you, and you were once so sane. 

Why do you mock me? — haven't I wept enough? — 

telling such wild stories, interrupting my sleep, 

sweet sleep that held me, sealed my eyes just now. 

Not once have I slept so soundly since the day 

Odysseus sailed away to see that cursed city . . . 

Destroy, I call it — I hate to say its name! 

Now down you go. Back to your own quarters. 

If any other woman of mine had come to me, 

rousing me out of sleep with such a tale, 

I'd have her bundled back to her room in pain. 

It's only your old gray head that spares you that!" 

"Never" — the fond old nurse kept pressing on — 
"dear child, I'd never mock you! No, it's all true, 
he's here — Odysseus — he's come home, just as I tell you! 
He's the stranger they all manhandled in the hall. 
Telemachus knew he was here, for days and days, 
but he knew enough to hide his father's plans 
so he could pay those vipers back in kind!" 

Penelope's heart burst in joy, she leapt from bed, 
her eyes streaming tears, she hugged the old nurse 
and cried out with an eager, winging word, 
"Please, dear one, give me the whole story. 
If he's really home again, just as you tell me, 
how did he get those shameless suitors in his clutches? — 
single-handed, braving an army always camped inside." 



20 



30 



40 



there he stood and all around him, over the beaten floor, 
the bodies sprawled in heaps, lying one on another . . . 
How it would have thrilled your heart to see him — 
splattered with bloody filth, a lion with his kill! 
And now they're all stacked at the courtyard gates — 
he's lit a roaring fire, 

he's purifying the house with cleansing fumes 
and he's sent me here to bring you back to him. 
Follow me down! So now, after all the years of grief, 
you two can embark, loving hearts, along the road to joy. 
Look, your dreams, put off so long, come true at last- 
he's back alive, home at his hearth, and found you, 
found his son still here. And all those suitors 
who did him wrong, he's paid them back, he has, 
right in his own house!" 

"Hush, dear woman," 
guarded Penelope cautioned her at once. 
"Don't laugh, don't cry in triumph — not yet. 
You know how welcome the sight of him would be 
to all in the house, and to me most of all 
and the son we bore together. 
But the story can't be true, not as you tell it, 
no, it must be a god who's killed our brazen friends — 
up in arms at their outrage, heartbreaking crimes. 
They'd no regard for any man on earth — 
good or bad — who chanced to come their way. So, 
thanks to their reckless work they die their deaths. 
Odysseus? Far from Achaea now, he's lost all hope 
of coming home . . . he's lost and gone himself." 



50 



60 



70 



"I have no idea," the devoted nurse replied. 
"I didn't see it, I didn't ask — all I heard 
was the choking groans of men cut down in blood. 
We crouched in terror — a dark nook of our quarters- 
all of us locked tight behind those snug doors 
till your boy Telemachus came and called me out — 
his father rushed him there to do just that. Then 
I found Odysseus in the thick of slaughtered corpses; 



"Child," the devoted old nurse protested, 
"what nonsense you let slip through your teeth. 
Here's your husband, warming his hands at his own hearth, 
here — and you, you say he'll never come home again, 
always the soul of trust! All right, this too — 
I'll give you a sign, a proof that's plain as day. 
That scar, made years ago by a boar's white tusk — 
I spotted the scar myself, when I washed his feet, 



80 



458 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[75-105] 



[105-36] 



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and I tried to tell you, ah, but he, the crafty rascal, 

clamped his hand on my mouth — I couldn't say a word. 

Follow me down now. I'll stake my life on it: 

if I am lying to you — 

kill me with a thousand knives of pain!" 

"Dear old nurse," composed Penelope responded, 
"deep as you are, my friend, you'll find it hard 
to plumb the plans of the everlasting gods. 
All the same, let's go and join my son 
so I can see the suitors lying dead 
and see . . . the one who killed them." 

With that thought 
Penelope started down from her lofty room, her heart 
in turmoil, torn . . . should she keep her distance, 
probe her husband? Or rush up to the man at once 
and kiss his head and cling to both his hands? 
As soon as she stepped across the stone threshold, 
slipping in, she took a seat at the closest wall 
and radiant in the firelight, faced Odysseus now. 
There he sat, leaning against the great central column, 
eyes fixed on the ground, waiting, poised for whatever words 
his hardy wife might say when she caught sight of him. 
A long while she sat in silence . . . numbing wonder 
filled her heart as her eyes explored his face. 
One moment he seemed . . . Odysseus, to the life — 
the next, no, he was not the man she knew, 
a huddled mass of rags was all she saw. 

"Oh mother," Telemachus reproached her, 
"cruel mother, you with your hard heart! 
Why do you spurn my father so — why don't you 
sit beside him, engage him, ask him questions? 
What other wife could have a spirit so unbending? 
Holding back from her husband, home at last for her 
after bearing twenty years of brutal struggle — 
your heart was always harder than a rock!" 

"My child," 



90 



100 



110 



Penelope, well-aware, explained, "I'm stunned with wonder, 

powerless. Cannot speak to him, ask him questions, 

look him in the eyes . . . But if he is truly 

Odysseus, home at last, make no mistake: 

we two will know each other, even better — 

we two have secret signs, 

known to us both but hidden from the world." 

Odysseus, long-enduring, broke into a smile 
and turned to his son with pointed, winging words: 
"Leave your mother here in the hall to test me 
as she will. She soon will know me better. 
Now because I am filthy, wear such grimy rags, 
she spurns me — your mother still can't bring herself 
to believe I am her husband. 

But you and I, 
put heads together. What's our best defense? 
When someone kills a lone man in the realm 
who leaves behind him no great band of avengers, 
still the killer flees, goodbye to kin and country. 
But we brought down the best of the island's princes, 
the pillars of Ithaca. Weigh it well, I urge you." 

"Look to it all yourself now, father," his son 
deferred at once. "You are the best on earth, 
they say, when it comes to mapping tactics. 
No one, no mortal man, can touch you there. 
But we're behind you, hearts intent on battle, 
nor do I think you'll find us short on courage, 
long as our strength will last." 

"Then here's our plan," 
the master of tactics said. "I think it's best. 
First go and wash, and pull fresh tunics on, 
and tell the maids in the hall to dress well too. 
And let the inspired bard take up his ringing lyre 
and lead off for us all a dance so full of heart 
that whoever hears the strains outside the gates — 
a passerby on the road, a neighbor round about — 



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130 



140 



150 



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will think it's a wedding-feast that's under way. 

No news of the suitors' death must spread through town 

till we have slipped away to our own estates, 

our orchard green with trees. There we'll see 

what winning strategy Zeus will hand us then." 

They hung on his words and moved to orders smartly. 
First they washed and pulled fresh tunics on, 
the women arrayed themselves — the inspired bard 
struck up his resounding lyre and stirred in all 
a desire for dance and song, the lovely lilting beat, 
till the great house echoed round to the measured tread 
of dancing men in motion, women sashed and lithe. 
And whoever heard the strains outside would say, 
"A miracle — someone's married the queen at last!" 

"One of her hundred suitors." 

"That callous woman, 
too faithless to keep her lord and master's house 
to the bitter end — " 

"Till he came sailing home." 

So they'd say, blind to what had happened: 
the great-hearted Odysseus was home again at last. 
The maid Eurynome bathed him, rubbed him down with oil 
and drew around him a royal cape and choice tunic too. 
And Athena crowned the man with beauty, head to foot, 
made him taller to all eyes, his build more massive, 
yes, and down from his brow the great goddess 
ran his curls like thick hyacinth clusters 
full of blooms. As a master craftsman washes 
gold over beaten silver — a man the god of fire 
and Queen Athena trained in every fine technique — 
and finishes of his latest effort, handsome work . . . 
so she lavished splendor over his head and shoulders now. 
He stepped from his bath, glistening like a god, 
and back he went to the seat that he had left 
and facing his wife, declared, 



160 



170 



180 



"Strange woman! So hard — the gods of Olympus 
made you harder than any other woman in the world! 
What other wife could have a spirit so unbending? 
Holding back from her husband, home at last for her 
after bearing twenty years of brutal struggle. 
Come, nurse, make me a bed, I'll sleep alone. 
She has a heart of iron in her breast." 

"Strange man," 
wary Penelope said. "I'm not so proud, so scornful, 
nor am I overwhelmed by your quick change . . . 
You look — how well I know — the way he looked, 
setting sail from Ithaca years ago 
aboard the long-oared ship. 

Come, Eurycleia, 
move the sturdy bedstead out of our bridal chamber — 
that room the master built with his own hands. 
Take it out now, sturdy bed that it is, 
and spread it deep with fleece, 
blankets and lustrous throws to keep him warm." 

Putting her husband to the proof — but Odysseus 
blazed up in fury, lashing out at his loyal wife: 
"Woman — your words, they cut me to the core! 
Who could move my bed? Impossible task, 
even for some skilled craftsman — unless a god 
came down in person, quick to lend a hand, 
lifted it out with ease and moved it elsewhere. 
Not a man on earth, not even at peak strength, 
would find it easy to prise it up and shift it, no, 
a great sign, a hallmark lies in its construction. 
I know, I built it myself — no one else . . . 
There was a branching olive-tree inside our court, 
grown to its full prime, the bole like a column, thickset. 
Around it I built my bedroom, finished off the walls 
with good tight stonework, roofed it over soundly 
and added doors, hung well and snugly wedged. 
Then I lopped the leafy crown of the olive, 
clean-cutting the stump bare from roots up, 



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200 



210 



220 



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[196-228] 



planing it round with a bronze smoothing-adze — 
I had the skill — I shaped it plumb to the line to make 
my bedpost, bored the holes it needed with an auger. 
Working from there I built my bed, start to finish, 
I gave it ivory inlays, gold and silver fittings, 
wove the straps across it, oxhide gleaming red. 
There's our secret sign, I tell you, our life story! 
Does the bed, my lady, still stand planted firm? — 
I don't know — or has someone chopped away 
that olive-trunk and hauled our bedstead off?" 

Living proof — 230 

Penelope felt her knees go slack, her heart surrender, 
recognizing the strong clear signs Odysseus offered. 
She dissolved in tears, rushed to Odysseus, flung her arms 
around his neck and kissed his head and cried out, 
"Odysseus — don't flare up at me now, not you, 
always the most understanding man alive! 
The gods, it was the gods who sent us sorrow — 
they grudged us both a life in each other's arms 
from the heady zest of youth to the stoop of old age. 
But don't fault me, angry with me now because I failed, 240 

at the first glimpse, to greet you, hold you, so . . . 
In my heart of hearts I always cringed with fear 
some fraud might come, beguile me with his talk; 
the world is full of the sort, 
cunning ones who plot their own dark ends. 
Remember Helen of Argos, Zeus's daughter — 
would she have sported so in a stranger's bed 
if she had dreamed that Achaea's sons were doomed 
to fight and die to bring her home again? 

Some god spurred her to do her shameless work. 250 

Not till then did her mind conceive that madness, 
blinding madness that caused her anguish, ours as well. 
But now, since you have revealed such overwhelming proof — 
the secret sign of our bed, which no one's ever seen 
but you and I and a single handmaid, Actoris, 
the servant my father gave me when I came, 



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who kept the doors of our room you built so well . . . 
you've conquered my heart, my hard heart, at last!" 

The more she spoke, the more a deep desire for tears 
welled up inside his breast — he wept as he held the wife 260 

he loved, the soul of loyalty, in his arms at last. 
Joy, warm as the joy that shipwrecked sailors feel 
when they catch sight of land — Poseidon has struck 
their well-rigged ship on the open sea with gale winds 
and crushing walls of waves, and only a few escape, swimming, 
struggling out of the frothing surf to reach the shore, 
their bodies crusted with salt but buoyed up with joy 
as they plant their feet on solid ground again, 
spared a deadly fate. So joyous now to her 

the sight of her husband, vivid in her gaze, 270 

that her white arms, embracing his neck 
would never for a moment let him go . . . 
Dawn with her rose-red fingers might have shone 
upon their tears, if with her glinting eyes 
Athena had not thought of one more thing. 
She held back the night, and night lingered long 
at the western edge of the earth, while in the east 
she reined in Dawn of the golden throne at Ocean's banks, 
commanding her not to yoke the windswift team that brings men light, 
Blaze and Aurora, the young colts that race the Morning on. 280 

Yet now Odysseus, seasoned veteran, said to his wife, 
"Dear woman ... we have still not reached the end 
of all our trials. One more labor lies in store — 
boundless, laden with danger, great and long, 
and I must brave it out from start to finish. 
So the ghost of Tiresias prophesied to me, 
the day that I went down to the House of Death 
to learn our best route home, my comrades' and my own. 
But come, let's go to bed, dear woman — at long last 
delight in sleep, delight in each other, come!" 290 

"If it's bed you want," reserved Penelope replied, 



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"it's bed you'll have, whenever the spirit moves, 
now that the gods have brought you home again 
to native land, your grand and gracious house. 
But since you've alluded to it, 
since a god has put it in your mind, 
please, tell me about this trial still to come. 
I'm bound to learn of it later, I am sure — 
what's the harm if I hear of it tonight?" 

"Still so strange," 
Odysseus, the old master of stories, answered. 
"Why again, why force me to tell you all? 
Well, tell I shall. I'll hide nothing now. 
But little joy it will bring you, I'm afraid, 
as little joy for me. 

The prophet said 
that I must rove through towns on towns of men, 
that I must carry a well-planed oar until 
I come to a people who know nothing of the sea, 
whose food is never seasoned with salt, strangers all 
to ships with their crimson prows and long slim oars, 
wings that make ships fly. And here is my sign, 
he told me, clear, so clear I cannot miss it, 
and I will share it with you now . . . 
When another traveler falls in with me and calls 
that weight across my shoulder a fan to winnow grain, 
then, he told me, I must plant my oar in the earth 
and sacrifice fine beasts to the lord god of the sea, 
Poseidon — a ram, a bull and a ramping wild boar — 
then journey home and render noble offerings up 
to the deathless gods who rule the vaulting skies, 
to all the gods in order. 

And at last my own death will steal upon me . . . 
a gentle, painless death, far from the sea it comes 
to take me down, borne down with the years in ripe old age 
with all my people here in blessed peace around me. 
All this, the prophet said, will come to pass." 

"And so," Penelope said, in her great wisdom, 



300 



310 



320 



"if the gods will really grant a happier old age, 
there's hope that we'll escape our trials at last." 

So husband and wife confided in each other, 
while nurse and Eurynome, under the flaring brands, 330 

were making up the bed with coverings deep and soft. 
And working briskly, soon as they'd made it snug, 
back to her room the old nurse went to sleep 
as Eurynome, their attendant, torch in hand, 
lighted the royal couple's way to bed and, 
leading them to their chamber, slipped away. 
Rejoicing in each other, they returned to their bed, 
the old familiar place they loved so well. 

Now Telemachus, the cowherd and the swineherd 
rested their dancing feet and had the women do the same, 340 

and across the shadowed hall the men lay down to sleep. 

But the royal couple, once they'd reveled in all 
the longed-for joys of love, reveled in each other's stories, 
the radiant woman telling of all she'd borne at home, 
watching them there, the infernal crowd of suitors 
slaughtering herds of cattle and good fat sheep — 
while keen to win her hand — 
draining the broached vats dry of vintage wine. 
And great Odysseus told his wife of all the pains 

he had dealt out to other men and all the hardships 350 

he'd endured himself — his story first to last — 
and she listened on, enchanted . . . 
Sleep never sealed her eyes till all was told. 

He launched in with how he fought the Cicones down, 
then how he came to the Lotus-eaters' lush green land. 
Then all the crimes of the Cyclops and how he paid him back 
for the gallant men the monster ate without a qualm — 
then how he visited Aeolus, who gave him a hero's welcome 
then he sent him off, but the homeward run was not his fate, 
not yet — some sudden squalls snatched him away once more 360 



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and drove him over the swarming sea, groaning in despair. 

Then how he moored at Telepylus, where Laestrygonians 

wrecked his fleet and killed his men-at-arms. 

He told her of Circe's cunning magic wiles 

and how he voyaged down in his long benched ship 

to the moldering House of Death, to consult Tiresias, 

ghostly seer of Thebes, and he saw old comrades there 

and he saw his mother, who bore and reared him as a child. 

He told how he caught the Sirens' voices throbbing in the wind 

and how he had scudded past the Clashing Rocks, past grim Charybdis, 

past Scylla — whom no rover had ever coasted by, home free — 

and how his shipmates slaughtered the cattle of the Sun 

and Zeus the king of thunder split his racing ship 

with a reeking bolt and killed his hardy comrades, 

all his fighting men at a stroke, but he alone 

escaped their death at sea. He told how he reached 

Ogygia's shores and the nymph Calypso held him back, 

deep in her arching caverns, craving him for a husband — 

cherished him, vowed to make him immortal, ageless, all his days, 

yes, but she never won the heart inside him, never . . . 

then how he reached the Phaeacians — heavy sailing there — 

who with all their hearts had prized him like a god 

and sent him off in a ship to his own beloved land, 

giving him bronze and hoards of gold and robes . . . 

and that was the last he told her, just as sleep 

overcame him . . . sleep loosing his limbs, 

slipping the toils of anguish from his mind. 



380 



Athena, her eyes afire, had fresh plans. 
Once she thought he'd had his heart's content 
of love and sleep at his wife's side, straightaway 
she roused young Dawn from Ocean's banks to her golden throne 
to bring men light and roused Odysseus too, who rose 
from his soft bed and advised his wife in parting, 
"Dear woman, we both have had our fill of trials. 
You in our house, weeping over my journey home, 
fraught with storms and torment, true, and I, 
pinned down in pain by Zeus and other gods, 



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for all my desire, blocked from reaching home. 

But now that we've arrived at our bed together — 

the reunion that we yearned for all those years — 

look after the things still left me in our house. 

But as for the flocks those strutting suitors plundered, 

much I'll recoup myself, making many raids; 

the rest our fellow -Ithacans will supply 

till all my folds are full of sheep again. 

But now I must be off to the upland farm, 

our orchard green with trees, to see my father, 

good old man weighed down with so much grief for me. 

And you, dear woman, sensible as you are, 

I would advise you, still . . . 

quick as the rising sun the news will spread 

of the suitors that I killed inside the house. 

So climb to your lofty chamber with your women. 

Sit tight there. See no one. Question no one." 



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410 



He strapped his burnished armor round his shoulders, 
roused Telemachus, the cowherd and the swineherd, 
and told them to take up weapons honed for battle. 
They snapped to commands, harnessed up in bronze, 
opened the doors and strode out, Odysseus in the lead. 
By now the daylight covered the land, but Pallas, 
shrouding them all in darkness, 
quickly led the four men out of town. 



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Peace 



No 



I ow Cyllenian Hermes called away the suitors' ghosts, 
holding firm in his hand the wand of fine pure gold 
that enchants the eyes of men whenever Hermes wants 
or wakes us up from sleep. 
With a wave of this he stirred and led them on 
and the ghosts trailed after with high thin cries 
as bats cry in the depths of a dark haunted cavern, 
shrilling, flittering, wild when one drops from the chain — 
slipped from the rock face, while the rest cling tight . . . 
So with their high thin cries the ghosts flocked now 
and Hermes the Healer led them on, and down the dank 
moldering paths and past the Ocean's streams they went 
and past the White Rock and the Sun's Western Gates and past 
the Land of Dreams, and they soon reached the fields of asphodel 



10 



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where the dead, the burnt-out wraiths of mortals, make their home. 



There they found the ghosts of Peleus' son Achilles, 
Patroclus, fearless Antilochus — and Great Ajax too, 
the first in stature, first in build and bearing 
of all the Argives after Peleus' matchless son. 
They had grouped around Achilles' ghost, and now 
the shade of Atreus' son Agamemnon marched toward them — 
fraught with grief and flanked by all his comrades, 
troops of his men-at-arms who died beside him, 
who met their fate in lord Aegisthus' halls. 
Achilles' ghost was first to greet him: "Agamemnon, 
you were the one, we thought, of all our fighting princes 
Zeus who loves the lightning favored most, all your days, 
because you commanded such a powerful host of men 
on the fields of Troy where we Achaeans suffered. 
But you were doomed to encounter fate so early, 
you too, yet no one born escapes its deadly force. 
If only you had died your death in the full flush 
of the glory you had mastered — died on Trojan soil! 
Then all united Achaea would have raised your tomb 
and you'd have won your son great fame for years to come. 
Not so. You were fated to die a wretched death." 



20 



30 



And the ghost of Atrides Agamemnon answered, 
"Son of Peleus, great godlike Achilles! Happy man, 
you died on the fields of Troy, a world away from home, 
and the best of Trojan and Argive champions died around you, 
fighting for your corpse. And you . . . there you lay 
in the whirling dust, overpowered in all your power 
and wiped from memory all your horseman's skills. 
That whole day we fought, we'd never have stopped 
if Zeus had not stopped us with sudden gales. 
Then we bore you out of the fighting, onto the ships, 
we laid you down on a litter, cleansed your handsome flesh 
with warm water and soothing oils, and round your body 
troops of Danaans wept hot tears and cut their locks. 



40 



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[47-80] 



Hearing the news, your mother, Thetis, rose from the sea, 50 

immortal sea -nymphs in her wake, and a strange unearthly cry 

came throbbing over the ocean. Terror gripped Achaea's armies, 

they would have leapt in panic, boarded the long hollow ships 

if one man, deep in his age-old wisdom, had not checked them: 

Nestor — from the first his counsel always seemed the best, 

and now, concerned for the ranks, he rose and shouted, 

'Hold fast, Argives! Sons of Achaea, don't run now! 

This is Achilles' mother rising from the sea 

with all her immortal sea-nymphs — 

she longs to join her son who died in battle!' 60 

That stopped our panicked forces in their tracks 

as the Old Man of the Sea's daughters gathered round you — 

wailing, heartsick — dressed you in ambrosial, deathless robes 

and the Muses, nine in all, voice-to-voice in choirs, 

their vibrant music rising, raised your dirge. 

Not one soldier would you have seen dry-eyed, 

the Muses' song so pierced us to the heart. 

For seventeen days unbroken, days and nights 

we mourned you — immortal gods and mortal men. 

At the eighteenth dawn we gave you to the flames 70 

and slaughtered around your body droves of fat sheep 

and shambling longhorn cattle, and you were burned 

in the garments of the gods and laved with soothing oils 

and honey running sweet, and a long cortege of Argive heroes 

paraded in review, in battle armor round your blazing pyre, 

men in chariots, men on foot — a resounding roar went up. 

And once the god of fire had burned your corpse to ash, 

at first light we gathered your white bones, Achilles, 

cured them in strong neat wine and seasoned oils. 

Your mother gave us a gold two-handled urn, 80 

a gift from Dionysus, she said, 

a masterwork of the famous Smith, the god of fire. 

Your white bones rest in that, my brilliant Achilles, 

mixed with the bones of dead Patroclus, Menoetius' son, 

apart from those of Antilochus, whom you treasured 

more than all other comrades once Patroclus died. 

Over your bones we reared a grand, noble tomb — 



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devoted veterans all, Achaea's combat forces — 

high on its jutting headland over the Hellespont's 

broad reach, a landmark glimpsed from far out at sea 90 

by men of our own day and men of days to come. 

And then 
your mother, begging the gods for priceless trophies, 
set them out in the ring for all our champions. 
You in your day have witnessed funeral games 
for many heroes, games to honor the death of kings, 
when young men cinch their belts, tense to win some prize — 
but if you'd laid eyes on these it would have thrilled your heart, 
magnificent trophies the goddess, glistening-footed Thetis, 
held out in your honor. You were dear to the gods, 
so even in death your name will never die ... 100 

Great glory is yours, Achilles, 
for all time, in the eyes of all mankind! 

But I? 
What joy for me when the coil of war had wound down? 
For my return Zeus hatched a pitiful death 
at the hands of Aegisthus — and my accursed wife." 

As they exchanged the stories of their fates, 
Hermes the guide and giant-killer drew up close to both, 
leading down the ghosts of the suitors King Odysseus killed. 
Struck by the sight, the two went up to them right away 
and the ghost of Atreus' son Agamemnon recognized 110 

the noted prince Amphimedon, Melaneus' dear son 
who received him once in Ithaca, at his home, 
and Atrides' ghost called out to his old friend now, 
"Amphimedon, what disaster brings you down to the dark world? 
All of you, good picked men, and all in your prime — 
no captain out to recruit the best in any city 
could have chosen better. What laid you low? 
Wrecked in the ships when lord Poseidon roused 
some punishing blast of gales and heavy breakers? 

Or did ranks of enemies mow you down on land 120 

as you tried to raid and cut off herds and flocks 
or fought to win their city, take their women? 



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Answer me, tell me. I was once your guest. 

Don't you recall the day I came to visit 

your house in Ithaca — King Menelaus came too — 

to urge Odysseus to sail with us in the ships 

on our campaign to Troy? And the long slow voyage, 

crossing wastes of ocean, cost us one whole month. 

That's how hard it was to bring him round, 

Odysseus, raider of cities." 

"Famous Atrides!" 130 

Amphimedon's ghost called back. "Lord of men, Agamemnon, 
I remember it all, your majesty, as you say, 
and I will tell you, start to finish now, 
the story of our death, 
the brutal end contrived to take us off. 
We were courting the wife of Odysseus, gone so long. 
She neither spurned nor embraced a marriage she despised, 
no, she simply planned our death, our black doom! 
This was her latest masterpiece of guile: 

she set up a great loom in the royal halls 140 

and she began to weave, and the weaving finespun, 
the yarns endless, and she would lead us on: 'Young men, 
my suitors, now that King Odysseus is no more, 
go slowly, keen as you are to marry me, until 
I can finish off this web . . . 

so my weaving won't all fray and come to nothing. 
This is a shroud for old lord Laertes, for that day 
when the deadly fate that lays us out at last will take him down. 
I dread the shame my countrywomen would heap upon me, 
yes, if a man of such wealth should lie in state 150 

without a shroud for cover.' 

Her very words, 
and despite our pride and passion we believed her. 
So by day she'd weave at her great and growing web — 
by night, by the light of torches set beside her, 
she would unravel all she'd done. Three whole years 
she deceived us blind, seduced us with this scheme . . . 
Then, when the wheeling seasons brought the fourth year on 
and the months waned and the long days came round once more, 



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one of her women, in on the queen's secret, told the truth 

and we caught her in the act — unweaving her gorgeous web. 160 

So she finished it off. Against her will. We forced her. 

But just as she bound off that great shroud and washed it, 

spread it out — glistening like the sunlight or the moon — 

just then some wicked spirit brought Odysseus back, 

from god knows where, to the edge of his estate 

where the swineherd kept his pigs. And back too, 

to the same place, came Odysseus' own dear son, 

scudding home in his black ship from sandy Pylos. 

The pair of them schemed our doom, our deathtrap, 

then lit out for town — 170 

Telemachus first in fact, Odysseus followed, 

later, led by the swineherd, and clad in tatters, 

looking for all the world like an old and broken beggar 

hunched on a stick, his body wrapped in shameful rags. 

Disguised so none of us, not even the older ones, 

could spot that tramp for the man he really was, 

bursting in on us there, out of the blue. No, 

we attacked him, blows and insults flying fast, 

and he took it all for a time, in his own house, 

all the taunts and blows — he had a heart of iron. 180 

But once the will of thundering Zeus had roused his blood, 

he and Telemachus bore the burnished weapons off 

and stowed them deep in a storeroom, shot the bolts 

and he — the soul of cunning — told his wife to set 

the great bow and the gleaming iron axes out 

before the suitors — all of us doomed now — 

to test our skill and bring our slaughter on . . . 

Not one of us had the strength to string that powerful weapon, 

all of us fell far short of what it took. But then, 

when the bow was coming round to Odysseus' hands, 190 

we raised a hue and cry— he must not have it, 

no matter how he begged! Only Telemachus 

urged him to take it up, and once he got it 

in his clutches, long-suffering great Odysseus 

strung his bow with ease and shot through all the axes, 

then, vaulting onto the threshold, stood there poised, and pouring 



474 



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[178-2101 



his flashing arrows out before him, glaring for the kill, 

he cut Antinous down, then shot his painful arrows 

into the rest of us, aiming straight and true, 

and down we went, corpse on corpse in droves. 200 

Clearly a god was driving him and all his henchmen, 

routing us headlong in their fury down the hall, 

wheeling into the slaughter, slashing left and right 

and grisly screams broke from skulls cracked open — 

the whole floor awash with blood. 

So we died, 
Agamemnon . . . our bodies lie untended even now, 
strewn in Odysseus' palace. They know nothing yet, 
the kin in our houses who might wash our wounds 
of clotted gore and lay us out and mourn us. 
These are the solemn honors owed the dead." 

"Happy Odysseus!" 210 
Agamemnon's ghost cried out. "Son of old Laertes — 
mastermind — what a fine, faithful wife you won! 
What good sense resided in your Penelope — 
how well Icarius' daughter remembered you, 
Odysseus, the man she married once! 
The fame of her great virtue will never die. 
The immortal gods will lift a song for all mankind, 
a glorious song in praise of self-possessed Penelope. 
A far cry from the daughter of Tyndareus, Clytemnestra — 
what outrage she committed, killing the man she married once! — 220 
yes, and the song men sing of her will ring with loathing. 
She brands with a foul name the breed of womankind, 
even the honest ones to come!" 

So they traded stories, 
the two ghosts standing there in the House of Death, 
far in the hidden depths below the earth. 



Odysseus and his men had stridden down from town 
and quickly reached Laertes' large, well-tended farm 
that the old king himself had wrested from the wilds, 
years ago, laboring long and hard. His lodge was here 
and around it stretched a row of sheds where neldhands, 



230 



[210-41] 



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475 



bondsmen who did his bidding, sat and ate and slept. 

With an old Sicilian woman, too, much in charge, 

who faithfully looked after her aged master 

out on his good estate remote from town. 

Odysseus told his servants and his son, 

"Into the timbered lodge now, go, quickly, 

kill us the fattest porker, fix our meal. 

And I will put my father to the test, 

see if the old man knows me now, on sight, 

or fails to, after twenty years apart." 



240 



With that he passed his armor to his men 
and in they went at once, his son as well. Odysseus 
wandered off, approaching the thriving vineyard, searching, 
picking his way down to the great orchard, searching, 
but found neither Dolius nor his sons nor any hand. 
They'd just gone off, old Dolius in the lead, 
to gather stones for a dry retaining wall 
to shore the vineyard up. But he did find 
his father, alone, on that well-worked plot, 
spading round a sapling — clad in filthy rags, 
in a patched, unseemly shirt, and round his shins 
he had some oxhide leggings strapped, patched too, 
to keep from getting scraped, and gloves on his hands 
to fight against the thorns, and on his head 
he wore a goatskin skullcap 
to cultivate his misery that much more . . . 
Long-enduring Odysseus, catching sight of him now — 
a man worn down with years, his heart racked with sorrow — 
halted under a branching pear-tree, paused and wept. 
Debating, head and heart, what should he do now? 
Kiss and embrace his father, pour out the long tale — 
how he had made the journey home to native land — 
or probe him first and test him every way? 
Torn, mulling it over, this seemed better: 
test the old man first, 

reproach him with words that cut him to the core. 
Convinced, Odysseus went right up to his father. 



250 



260 



476 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



Laertes was digging round the sapling, head bent low 

as his famous offspring hovered over him and began, 

"You want no skill, old man, at tending a garden. 

All's well-kept here; not one thing in the plot, 

no plant, no fig, no pear, no olive, no vine, 

not a vegetable, lacks your tender, loving care. 

But I must say — and don't be offended now — 

your plants are doing better than yourself. 

Enough to be stooped with age 

but look how squalid you are, those shabby rags. 

Surely it's not for sloth your master lets you go to seed. 

There's nothing of slave about your build or bearing. 

I have eyes: you look like a king to me. The sort 

entitled to bathe, sup well, then sleep in a soft bed. 

That's the right and pride of you old-timers. 

Come now, tell me — in no uncertain terms — 

whose slave are you? whose orchard are you tending? 

And tell me this — I must be absolutely sure — 

this place I've reached, is it truly Ithaca? 

Just as that fellow told me, just now . . . 

I fell in with him on the road here. Clumsy, 

none too friendly, couldn't trouble himself 

to hear me out or give me a decent answer 

when I asked about a long-lost friend of mine, 

whether he's still alive, somewhere in Ithaca, 

or dead and gone already, lost in the House of Death. 

Do you want to hear his story? Listen. Catch my drift. 

I once played host to a man in my own country; 

he'd come to my door, the most welcome guest 

from foreign parts I ever entertained. 

He claimed he came of good Ithacan stock, 

said his father was Arcesius' son, Laertes. 

So I took the new arrival under my own roof, 

I gave him a hero's welcome, treated him in style — 

stores in our palace made for princely entertainment. 

And I gave my friend some gifts to fit his station, 

handed him seven bars of well-wrought gold, 

a mixing-bowl of solid silver, etched with flowers, 



[242-75] 



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[276-305] 



BOOK 24: PEACE 



477 



280 



290 



300 



a dozen cloaks, unlined and light, a dozen rugs 
and as many full-cut capes and shirts as well, 
and to top it off, four women, perfect beauties 
skilled in crafts — he could pick them out himself." 

"Stranger," his father answered, weeping softly, 
"the land you've reached is the very one you're after, 
true, but it's in the grip of reckless, lawless men. 
And as for the gifts you showered on your guest, 
you gave them all for nothing. 
But if you'd found him alive, here in Ithaca, 
he would have replied in kind, with gift for gift, 
and entertained you warmly before he sent you off. 
That's the old custom, when one has led the way. 
But tell me, please — in no uncertain terms — 
how many years ago did you host the man, 
that unfortunate guest of yours, my son . . . 
there was a son, or was he all a dream? 
That most unlucky man, whom now, I fear, 
far from his own soil and those he loves, 
the fish have swallowed down on the high seas 
or birds and beasts on land have made their meal. 
Nor could the ones who bore him — mother, father — 
wrap his corpse in a shroud and mourn him deeply. 
Nor could his warm, generous wife, so self-possessed, 
Penelope, ever keen for her husband on his deathbed, 
the fit and proper way, or close his eyes at last. 
These are the solemn honors owed the dead. 
But tell me your own story — that I'd like to know: 
Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents? 
Where does the ship lie moored that brought you here, 
your hardy shipmates too? Or did you arrive 
as a passenger aboard some stranger's craft 
and men who put you ashore have pulled away?" 



310 



320 



330 



"The whole tale," 



his crafty son replied, "I'll tell you start to finish. 

I come from Roamer-Town, my home's a famous place, 

my father's Unsparing, son of old King Pain, 



340 



478 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[306-37] 



and my name's Man of Strife . . . 

I sailed from Sicily, aye, but some ill wind 

blew me here, off course — much against my will — 

and my ship lies moored off farmlands far from town. 

As for Odysseus, well, five years have passed 

since he left my house and put my land behind him, 

luckless man! But the birds were good as he launched out, 

all on the right, and I rejoiced as I sent him off 

and he rejoiced in sailing. We had high hopes 350 

we'd meet again as guests, as old friends, 

and trade some shining gifts." 

At those words 
a black cloud of grief came shrouding over Laertes. 
Both hands clawing the ground for dirt and grime, 
he poured it over his grizzled head, sobbing, in spasms. 
Odysseus' heart shuddered, a sudden twinge went shooting up 
through his nostrils, watching his dear father struggle . . . 
He sprang toward him, kissed him, hugged him, crying, 
"Father — I am your son — myself, the man you're seeking, 
home after twenty years, on native ground at last! 360 

Hold back your tears, your grief. 
Let me tell you the news, but we must hurry — 
I've cut the suitors down in our own house, 
I've paid them back their outrage, vicious crimes!" 

"Odysseus ..." 
Laertes, catching his breath, found words to answer. 
"You — you're truly my son, Odysseus, home at last? 
Give me a sign, some proof — I must be sure." 

"This scar first," 
quick to the mark, his son said, "look at this — 
the wound I took from the boar's white tusk 

on Mount Parnassus. There you'd sent me, you 370 

and mother, to see her fond old father, Autolycus, 
and collect the gifts he vowed to give me, once, 
when he came to see us here. 

Or these, these trees — 
let me tell you the trees you gave me years ago, 
here on this well-worked plot . . . 



[337-70] 



BOOK 24! PEACE 



479 



I begged you for everything I saw, a little boy 
trailing you through the orchard, picking our way 
among these trees, and you named them one by one. 
You gave me thirteen pear, ten apple trees 
and forty figs — and promised to give me, look, 
fifty vinerows, bearing hard on each other's heels, 
clusters of grapes year-round at every grade of ripeness, 
mellowed as Zeus's seasons weigh them down." 

Living proof — 
and Laertes' knees went slack, his heart surrendered, 
recognizing the strong clear signs Odysseus offered. 
He threw his arms around his own dear son, fainting 
as hardy great Odysseus hugged him to his heart 
until he regained his breath, came back to life 
and cried out, "Father Zeus — 
you gods of Olympus, you still rule on high 
if those suitors have truly paid in blood 
for all their reckless outrage! Oh, but now 
my heart quakes with fear that all the Ithacans 
will come down on us in a pack, at any time, 
and rush the alarm through every island town!" 

"There's nothing to fear," his canny son replied, 
"put it from your mind. Let's make for your lodge 
beside the orchard here. I sent Telemachus on ahead, 
the cowherd, swineherd too, to fix a hasty meal." 

So the two went home, confiding all the way, 
and arriving at the ample, timbered lodge, 
they found Telemachus with the two herdsmen 
carving sides of meat and mixing ruddy wine. 
Before they ate, the Sicilian serving-woman 
bathed her master, Laertes — his spirits high 
in his own room — and rubbed him down with oil 
and round his shoulders drew a fresh new cloak. 
And Athena stood beside him, fleshing out the limbs 
of the old commander, made him taller to all eyes, 
his build more massive, stepping from his bath, 



380 



390 



400 



410 



480 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[370-401] 



[402-35] 



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481 



so his own son gazed at him, wonderstruck — 
face-to-face he seemed a deathless god . . . 
"Father" — Odysseus' words had wings — "surely 
one of the everlasting gods has made you 
taller, stronger, shining in my eyes!" 

Facing his son, the wise old man returned, 
"If only — Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo — 
I were the man I was, king of the Cephallenians 
when I sacked the city of Nericus, sturdy fortress 
out on its jutting cape! If I'd been young in arms 
last night in our house with harness on my back, 
standing beside you, fighting off the suitors, 
how many I would have cut the knees from under — 
the heart inside you would have leapt for joy!" 

So father and son confirmed each other's spirits. 
And then, with the roasting done, the meal set out, 
the others took their seats on chairs and stools, 
were just putting their hands to bread and meat 
when old Dolius trudged in with his sons, 
worn out from the fieldwork. 
The old Sicilian had gone and fetched them home, 
the mother who reared the boys and tended Dolius well, 
now that the years had ground the old man down . . . 
When they saw Odysseus — knew him in their bones — 
they stopped in their tracks, staring, struck dumb, 
but the king waved them on with a warm and easy air: 
"Sit down to your food, old friend. Snap out of your wonder. 
We've been cooling our heels here long enough, 
eager to get our hands on all this pork, 
hoping you'd all troop in at any moment." 

Spreading his arms, Dolius rushed up to him, 
clutched Odysseus by the wrist and kissed his hand, 
greeting his king now with a burst of winging words: 
"Dear master, you're back — the answer to our prayers! 
We'd lost all hope, but the gods have brought you home! 



420 



430 



440 



Welcome — health! The skies rain blessings on you! 
But tell me the truth now — this I'd like to know — 
shrewd Penelope, has she heard you're home? 
Or should we send a messenger?" 

"She knows by now, 
old man," his wily master answered brusquely. 
"Why busy yourself with that?" 

So Dolius went back to his sanded stool. 
His sons too, pressing around the famous king, 
greeted Odysseus warmly, grasped him by the hand, 
then took their seats in order by their father. 

But now, as they fell to supper in the lodge, 
Rumor the herald sped like wildfire through the city, 
crying out the news of the suitors' bloody death and doom, 
and massing from every quarter as they listened, kinsmen milled 
with wails and moans of grief before Odysseus' palace. 
And then they carried out the bodies, every family 
buried their own, and the dead from other towns 
they loaded onto the rapid ships for crews 
to ferry back again, each to his own home . . . 
Then in a long, mourning file they moved to assembly 
where, once they'd grouped, crowding the meeting grounds, 
old lord Eupithes rose in their midst to speak out. 
Unforgettable sorrow wrung his heart for his son, 
Antinous, the first that great Odysseus killed. 
In tears for the one he lost, he stood and cried, 
"My friends, what a mortal blow this man has dealt 
to all our island people! Those fighters, many and brave, 
he led away in his curved ships — he lost the ships 
and he lost the men and back he comes again 
to kill the best of our Cephallenian princes. 
Quick, after him! Before he flees to Pylos 
or holy Elis, where Epeans rule in power — 
up, attack! Or we'll hang our heads forever, 
all disgraced, even by generations down the years, 
if we don't punish the murderers of our brothers and our sons! 



450 



460 



470 



480 



482 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[435-67] 



Why, life would lose its relish — for me, at least — 
I'd rather die at once and go among the dead. 
Attack! — before the assassins cross the sea 
and leave us in their wake." 

He closed in tears 
and compassion ran through every Achaean there. 
Suddenly Medon and the inspired bard approached them, 
fresh from Odysseus' house, where they had just awakened. 
They strode into the crowds; amazement took each man 
but the herald Medon spoke in all his wisdom: 

"Hear me, men of Ithaca. Not without the hand 490 

of the deathless gods did Odysseus do these things! 
Myself, I saw an immortal fighting at his side — 
like Mentor to the life. I saw the same god, 
now in front of Odysseus, spurring him on, 
now stampeding the suitors through the hall, 
crazed with fear, and down they went in droves!" 

Terror gripped them all, their faces ashen white. 
At last the old warrior Halitherses, Master's son — 
who alone could see the days behind and days ahead — 
rose up and spoke, distraught for each man there: 500 

"Hear me, men of Ithaca. Hear what I have to say. 
Thanks to your own craven hearts these things were done! 
You never listened to me or the good commander Mentor, 
you never put a stop to your sons' senseless folly. 
What fine work they did, so blind, so reckless, 
carving away the wealth, affronting the wife 
of a great and famous man, telling themselves 
that he'd return no more! So let things rest now. 
Listen to me for once — I say don't attack! 
Else some will draw the lightning on their necks." 

So he urged 510 

and some held fast to their seats, but more than half 
sprang up with warcries now. They had no taste 
for the prophet's sane plan — winning Eupithes 
quickly won them over. They ran for armor 
and once they'd harnessed up in burnished bronze 



[468-97] 



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483 



they grouped in ranks before the terraced city. 
Eupithes led them on in their foolish, mad campaign, 
certain he would avenge the slaughter of his son 
but the father was not destined to return — 
he'd meet his death in battle then and there. 

Athena at this point made appeals to Zeus: 
"Father, son of Cronus, our high and mighty king, 
now let me ask you a question . . . 
tell me the secrets hidden in your mind. 
Will you prolong the pain, the cruel fighting here 
or hand down pacts of peace between both sides?" 

"My child," Zeus who marshals the thunderheads replied, 
"why do you pry and probe me so intently? Come now, 
wasn't the plan your own? You conceived it yourself: 
Odysseus should return and pay the traitors back. 
Do as your heart desires — 
but let me tell you how it should be done. 
Now that royal Odysseus has taken his revenge, 
let both sides seal their pacts that he shall reign for life, 
and let us purge their memories of the bloody slaughter 
of their brothers and their sons. Let them be friends, 
devoted as in the old days. Let peace and wealth 
come cresting through the land." 

So Zeus decreed 
and launched Athena already poised for action — 
down she swept from Olympus' craggy peaks. 

By then Odysseus' men had had their fill 
of hearty fare, and the seasoned captain said, 
"One of you go outside — see if they're closing in." 
A son of Dolius snapped to his command, 
ran to the door and saw them all too close 
and shouted back to Odysseus, 
"They're on top of us! To arms — and fast!" 
Up they sprang and strapped themselves in armor, 
the three men with Odysseus, Dolius' six sons 



520 



530 



540 



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homer: THE ODYSSEY 



[498-5301 



[530^18] 



BOOK 24: PEACE 



485 



and Dolius and Laertes clapped on armor too, 

gray as they were, but they would fight if forced. 

Once they had all harnessed up in burnished bronze 

they opened the doors and strode out, Odysseus in the lead. 

And now, taking the build and voice of Mentor, 
Zeus's daughter Athena marched right in. 
The good soldier Odysseus thrilled to see her, 
turned to his son and said in haste, "Telemachus, 
you'll learn soon enough — as you move up to fight 
where champions strive to prove themselves the best — 
not to disgrace your father's line a moment. 
In battle prowess we've excelled for ages 
all across the world." 

Telemachus reassured him, 
"Now you'll see, if you care to watch, father, 
now I'm fired up. Disgrace, you say? 
I won't disgrace your line!" 

Laertes called out in deep delight, 
"What a day for me, dear gods! What joy — 
my son and my grandson vying over courage!" 

"Laertes!" 
Goddess Athena rushed beside him, eyes ablaze: 
"Son of Arcesius, dearest of all my comrades, 
say a prayer to the bright-eyed girl and Father Zeus, 
then brandish your long spear and wing it fast!" 



550 



560 



570 



in a piercing voice that stopped all fighters cold, 
"Hold back, you men of Ithaca, back from brutal war! 
Break off— shed no more blood— make peace at once!" 

So Athena commanded. Terror blanched their faces, 
they went limp with fear, weapons slipped from their hands 
and strewed the ground at the goddess' ringing voice. 
They spun in flight to the city, wild to save their lives, 
but loosing a savage cry, the long-enduring great Odysseus, 
gathering all his force, swooped like a soaring eagle — 
just as the son of Cronus hurled a reeking bolt 
that fell at her feet, the mighty Father's daughter, 
and blazing-eyed Athena wheeled on Odysseus, crying, 
"Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, master of exploits, 
hold back now! Call a halt to the great leveler, War— 
don't court the rage of Zeus who rules the world!" 

So she commanded. He obeyed her, glad at heart. 
And Athena handed down her pacts of peace 
between both sides for all the years to come — 
the daughter of Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder, 
yes, but the goddess still kept Mentor's build and voice. 



590 



600 



Athena breathed enormous strength in the old man. 
He lifted a prayer to mighty Zeus's daughter, 
brandished his spear a moment, winged it fast 
and hit Eupithes, pierced his bronze-sided helmet 
that failed to block the bronze point tearing through — 
down Eupithes crashed, his armor clanging against his chest. 
Odysseus and his gallant son charged straight at the front lines, 
slashing away with swords, with two-edged spears and now 
they would have killed them all, cut them off from home 
if Athena, daughter of storming Zeus, had not cried out 



580 



NOTES 



TRANSLATOR'S 
POSTSCRIPT 



"Homer makes us Hearers," Pope has said, ''and Virgil leaves us Readers." 
So the great translator of Homer, no doubt unknowingly, set at odds the 
claims of an oral tradition and those of a literary one, as we would call 
the two traditions now. Homer's work is a performance, even in part a 
musical event. Perhaps that is the source of his speed, directness and sim- 
plicity, that Matthew Arnold praised — and his nobility too, elusive yet 
undeniable, that Arnold pursued but never really caught. Surely it is a 
major source of Homer's energy, the loft and carry of his imagination 
that sweeps along the listener together with the performer. For there is a 
power in Homer's song, and whether it is "that unequal'd Fire and Rap- 
ture" that Pope found in the Iliad or the glow of the setting sun that 
Longinus found in the Odyssey, it brings to light the Homeric Question 
facing all translators: how to convey the force of his performance in the 
quieter medium of writing? "Homer makes us Hearers, and Virgil leaves 
us Readers." 

Yet the contrast may be too extreme. Virgil the writer was certainly no 
stranger to recitation. Homer the performer, as Bernard Knox conjec- 
tures in his Introduction, may have known a rudimentary form of 
writing. And writing may have lent his work some qualities we associate 
with written works in general — idiosyncrasies at times, and pungency 
and wit — and with the Iliad and the Odyssey in particular, their architec- 
tonics, their magnificent scale, and the figures of Achilles and Hector, 
Odysseus and Penelope. But even if Homer never used an alphabet him- 
self, he now seems less the creature of an oral tradition whom Milman 
Parry discovered, and more and more its master, as envisioned by Adam, 
Parry's son, and as others have agreed. A brilliant improviser, Homer 
deployed the stock, inherited features of this tradition with all the indi- 
vidual talent he could muster. Never more so, in fact, than in his use of 
the fixed and formulaic, frequently repeated phrase. Not only is Homer 
often less formulaic than might appear, but the formulas themselves are 
often more resonant, more apt and telling in their contexts, than the 
"hard Parryites" argued for at first. So the original form of Homer's work, 
though a far cry from a work of literature as we know it now, is not 
exactly a song, pure and simple, either. It may be more the record of a 

489 



490 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



song, building, perhaps, over the poet's entire lifetime — not spontaneity 
outright but what Marianne Moore would call "a simulacrum of spon- 
taneity." 

Writing at a far remove from Homer, my approach in this translation 
has been the one I took in a version of the Iliad. With the Odyssey, how- 
ever, I have tried to vary my voice in even more ways, modulating it to 
fit the postwar world, the more domestic, more intimate world of the 
later poem; yet raising it when an occasion calls — when Homer returns 
to heroic action or a fabulous encounter or an emotional crescendo — as a 
reminder that a related voice runs through both poems. That, taken as a 
sequel to the Iliad, the Odyssey would celebrate, in Wallace Stevens' 
phrase, "war's miracle begetting that of peace." And both of my transla- 
tions share a related impulse, too. Again I have tried to find a middle 
ground (and not a no-man's-land, if I can help it) between the features 
of Homer's performance and the expectations of a contemporary reader. 
Not a line-by-line translation, my version of the Odyssey is, I hope, nei- 
ther so literal in rendering Homer's language as to cramp and distort my 
own — though I want to convey as much of what he says as possible — nor 
so literary as to brake his energy, his forward drive, though I want my 
work to be literate and clear. For the more literal approach would seem 
to be too little English, and the more literary seems too little Greek. What 
I have tried to find is a cross between the two, a modern English Homer. 

Of course, it is a risky business, stating what one had tried to do or, 
worse, the principles one has used (petards that will probably hoist the 
writer later). But a few words of explanation seem in order, and the first 
of them refer to the more fixed and formulaic parts of Homer. Again I 
have treated them in a flexible, discretionary way, not incompatible with 
Homer's way, I like to think — especially when his formulas are func- 
tional as well as fixed — yet also answering to the ways we read today. It 
is a matter of "riding easy in the harness," as Robert Frost once said of 
democracy, and my practice ranges from the pliant to the fairly strict. 

With one of the most frequently repeated phrases, for example — the 
line that introduces many individual speeches — I have been the freest, 
trying to hint at the speaker's nuance of the moment while retaining, at 
least, the habit of an introductory line for every speech. When Homer 
begins a speech of "winged words," however, I rarely omit the well- 
known phrase, yet I like the flight of the words to vary, with a sudden 
burst at times and a longer drift at others, depending on the words a 
character has to say. And so with the epithets that cling to the leading 
figures as closely as their names. According to what perifron Penelope is 
doing at the time, the sense of the epithet may go from the heroine's 



TRANSLATOR S POSTSCRIPT 



491 



guardedness, her circumspection, to her self-possession, to her gift for 
great good wisdom, and her willingness to give that wisdom voice. With 
pepnumenos Telemachus, many qualities, from his wariness, to his 
growing poise, to his level-headed sense in action as well as speech, may 
be involved. And with polumetis Odysseus, the epithet may extend from 
the hero's craft and cunning (murderous cunning when required), to his 
skill of hand or expertise at quick disguise and spinning yarns, to his zest 
for exploit and adventure. Odysseus, the virtuoso of sometimes doubtful 
virtue, is short on "character" in the sense of habitual goodness but long 
on "character" as John Crowe Ransom had described "the Shake- 
spearean, modern, passionately cherished, almost religious sense of the 
total individuality of a person who is rich in vivid yet contingent traits, 
even physical traits, that are not ethical at all." And as Ransom con- 
cludes, "this kind of character engages an auditor's love, and that is more 
than his ethical approval." Fullness of personality would seem to be 
essential, particularly for the "polytropic" hero, "the man of twists and 
turns" — the beggar-king who moves at will from self-effacement to self- 
assertion, from me tis to metis, from Nobody to Odysseus, the wily raider 
of cities. (See notes 9.410 and 19.463-64.) In sum, as each Homeric epi- 
thet recurs, within its family of meanings I try to find a kindred English 
word that suits the character and the context. 

Yet with longer repetitions in the Odyssey I like to repeat my English 
version closely, especially if the context shifts the function of the passage, 
and the opportunities for irony may be ample. For instance, the rituals 
prior to dining — rinsing the hands, serving the appetizers and the bread, 
and drawing a table toward a guest — recur, hospitably, in Ithaca and 
Sparta and Phaeacia, but in Circe's house they are part of her seductions, 
all of which Odysseus resists until the witch, who turned his shipmates 
into pigs, turns them back again to men. With one of the longest recur- 
rent passages in the poem, Penelope's deception of her suitors, the trans- 
lation, like Homer's original, repeats almost verbatim the weaving and 
unweaving of her web. First Antinous describes it in Book 2.101-22, 
indicting Penelope before the Ithacan assembly while, as the Introduc- 
tion observes, paying "reluctant tribute to the subtlety of her delaying 
tactics." Then when she describes her weaving in Book 19.153-75 — 
adding her own words of indignation in 173-74 — she defends herself, 
her fidelity and her finesse before the nameless stranger, though some 
suggest she is also secretly appealing to the man she senses is Odysseus. 
And finally in Book 24.139-61, a leading suitor, Amphimedon — killed by 
Odysseus and new to the world of the dead — cries out against Penelope's 
duplicity to the ghost of Agamemnon, who had been murdered by 



492 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



Clytemnestra, his duplicitous wife. The suitor may trust that the warlord 
will be outraged when he hears of another wife's deceptions, but of 
course the wife of Odysseus, deliberately or not, sped the work of her 
avenging husband. That's what impresses Agamemnon, and so he calls 
for "a glorious song in praise of self-possessed Penelope" (24.218, see 
note 1.34-55) — the song that Homer has provided in the Odyssey. All in 
all, then, I have tried for repetition with a difference when variation 
seems of use, yet for virtual repetition in the longer passages, particularly 
when the weave of right and wrong, the Homeric moral fabric, is at issue. 

Turning briefly to Homer's metrics, I would also like to hold a middle 
ground, here between his spacious hexameter line — his "ear, ear for the 
sea-surge," as Pound once heard it — and a tighter line more native to 
English verse. If, as Knox suggests, the strongest weapon in Homer's 
poetic arsenal is variety within a metrical norm, the translation opts for a 
freer give-and-take between the two, and one that offers more variety 
than uniformity in the end. Working from a five- or six-beat line while 
leaning more to six, I expand at times to seven beats — to convey the 
reach of a simile or the vehemence of a storm at sea or a long-drawn-out 
conclusion to a story — or I contract at times to three, to give a point in 
speech or action sharper stress. Free as it is, such interplay between 
variety and norm results, I suppose, from a kind of tug-of-war peculiar to 
translation: in this case, trying to capture the meaning of the Greek on 
the one hand, trying to find a cadence for one's English on the other, yet 
joining hands, if possible, to make a line of verse. I hope, at any rate, not 
only to give my own language a slight stretching now and then, but also 
to lend Homer the sort of range in rhythm, pace and tone that may make 
an Odyssey engaging to the reader. 

And I would like to suggest, again at a far remove, another tension in 
Homer's metrics, his blend of mass and movement both — his lines have 
so much body or ongkos yet so much grace and speed. And so I have tried 
to make my own lines as momentarily end-stopped, and yet as steadily 
ongoing too, as English syntax and the breathing marks of punctuation 
will allow. My hope has been that each turn in the verse might mark a 
fresh beginning, moving toward a fresh conclusion, turning and return- 
ing, like a version in minuscule of a familiar Odyssean rhythm. In other 
words, I have tried to keep the master's voice in mind and to offer, if 
nothing more, a partial, distant echo of it in the reader's ear. But Homer's 
line is the line beyond compare, and I would only remind the reader of 
the Introduction's fine description: "The long line, which no matter how 
it varies in the opening and middle always ends in the same way, builds 
up its hypnotic effect in book after book, imposing on things and men 



translator's postscript 



493 



and gods the same pattern, presenting in a rhythmic microcosm the wan- 
dering course to a fixed end which is the pattern of the rage of Achilles 
and the travels of Odysseus, of all natural phenomena and all human 
destinies." 

In aiming for these and other objectives in a version of the Odyssey, I 
have had many kinds of help. The greatest has come from my collabo- 
rator, Bernard Knox, whom I would rather call a comrade. As we 
worked together on Sophocles and the Iliad, so we have done on the 
Odyssey as well. Not only has he written the Introduction and Notes on 
the Translation, but he has commented on my drafts for many years. 
And when I leaf through the pages now, his commentary seems to ring 
my typescript so completely that I might be looking at a worse-for-wear, 
dog-eared manuscript encircled by a scholiast's remarks. Yet Knox's gifts 
are larger, for he has offered me what Yeats would call Platonic tolerance 
and Doric discipline, and something even more basic to the Iliad and the 
Odyssey. Athena, disguised as Mentor, encourages Telemachus to live up 
to Odysseus, "a man ... in words and action both" (2.305). My good for- 
tune has been to work with such a man. 

Several modern scholars and critics, cited among the further readings, 
have helped as well, and so have several modern translators of the 
Odyssey. Each has introduced me to a new aspect of the poem, another 
potential for the present. "For if it is true," as Maynard Mack proposes, 
"that what we translate from a given work is what, wearing the specta- 
cles of our time, we see in it, it is also true that we see in it what we have 
the power to translate." So the help I have derived from others is consid- 
erable, and I would like to say my thanks to them, dividing them for con- 
venience into groups. First the ones who have translated the Odyssey into 
prose: from Samuel Butler, A. T. Murray, revised by George E. Dimock, 
and George Herbert Palmer, to W. H. D. Rouse and R. D. Dawe, and in 
particular to Walter Shewring and to D. C. H. Rieu who, in consultation 
with Peter V. Jones, has revised the earlier work of his father, E. V. Rieu. 
Each presents an example of accuracy as well as grace, and the stronger 
that example, the more instructive each has been in bringing me some- 
what closer to the Greek. And next the translators who have turned the 
Odyssey into verse: from Albert Cook to Ennis Rees to Richmond Latti- 
more, Allen Mandelbaum, Oliver Taplin and Robert Fitzgerald. Each pre- 
sents a kind of aspiration, and I have learned from each, probably most 
from Fitzgerald, since he would persuade us that Homer is, as he 
described him, "a living presence bringing into life his great company of 
imagined persons." And finally there are the unapproachables, who 
either are too remote (and so to me, at least, examples not to follow), 



494 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



like certain Victorians, and Cowper, and Chapman — pace Keats — or are 
impossible to equal, like T. E. Lawrence at his best or Pope in the dozen 
books of the Odyssey that he produced himself. 

Only a few of the recent translators have I known in person, yet we all 
may know each other in a way, having trekked across the same territory, 
perhaps having experienced the same nightmare that harried Pope 
throughout his Homeric efforts. "He was engaged in a long journey," as 
Joseph Spence reports Pope's dream, "puzzled which way to take, and 
full of fears" that it would never end. And if you reach the end, the fears 
may start in earnest. Your best hope, I suppose, and a distant one at that, 
is the one held out by Walter Benjamin in his essay "The Task of the 
Translator," where he writes, "even the greatest translation is destined to 
become part of the growth of its own language and eventually to be 
absorbed by its renewal." 

Many friends have come to my side, some by reading, some by lis- 
tening to me read, the work-in-progress, and responding with criticism 
or encouragement or a healthy blend of both. Most encouraging of all, 
none has asked me, "Why another Odyssey?" Each has understood, it 
seems, that if Homer was a performer, his translator might aim to be one 
as well; and no two performances of the same work — surely not of 
musical composition, so probably not of a work of language either — will 
ever be the same. The timbre and tempo of each will be distinct, let alone 
its deeper resonance, build and thrust. My thanks, then, to Andre 
Aciman, Clarence Brown, Andrew Ford, Rachel Hadas, Robert Hol- 
lander, David Lenson, Earl Miner, Sarah Nelson, Joyce Carol Oates, 
Jacqueline Savini, Ben Sonnenberg and Theodore Weiss. And I also 
thank the ones who invited me to try the work in public, and improve it 
in the bargain: Ward Briggs III at the University of South Carolina, Larry 
Carver and Paul Woodruff at the University of Texas in Austin, and Karl 
Kirchwey at the Unterberg Poetry Center of the 92nd Street Y. And phil- 
hellenic thanks should go to Edmund Keeley, the English voice of the 
great modern Greek poets, for he accompanied me on Homer's nostos, 
reacting line by line and knowing well, with his Cavafy, that only Ithaca 
can give you "the marvelous journey" in the first place. 

Several classicists have offered information and advice: Marilyn 
Arthur Katz, John Keaney, Richard Martin, Georgia Nugent, John Per- 
adotto, Pietro Pucci and Froma Zeitlin. Together with the lexicons, 
Homeric and ancient Greek in general, the commentaries of other 
scholars have been my vade mecums: those on other English translations 
of the Odyssey — Ralph Hexter's on Robert Fitzgerald's and Peter Jones's 
on Richmond Lattimore's — and those on Homer's text itself: A. F. 



translator's postscript 



495 



Garvie's on Books 6 through 8 and R. B. Rutherford's on 19 and 20; the 
complete three -volume Oxford commentary compiled by M. Femandez- 
Galiano, J. B. Hainsworth, A. Heubeck, A. Hoekstra, J. Russo and S. 
West; and W. B. Stanford's edition of the Odyssey with his commentary 
on the poem. The first incentive for translating Homer came from the 
late Stanford, who, one afternoon in County Wicklow many years ago, 
sketched out a route for returning to the source. And in pursuit of it, I 
have often consulted the familiar spirits of Anne and Adam Parry. 

The roofs of some great houses have extended welcome shelter to the 
translator and his work. Mary and Theodore Cross have turned Nan- 
tucket into Ithaca West with their Homeric hospitality. Princeton Univer- 
sity gave me generous leaves of absence in the spring of 1992 and, 
adding a McCosh Faculty Fellowship for good measure, throughout the 
spring and fall semesters three years later. More important, the Univer- 
sity has enabled me to study Homer with students who have been an 
education to me. The Program in Hellenic Studies appointed me to a 
Stanley J. Seeger Fellowship, which took me to the Ionian islands in the 
summer of 1994 (and persuaded me that unless Cephallenia — lying "low 
and away, the farthest out to sea" [9.27]— was actually Ithaca, Odysseus 
may never have got home at all). The Rockefeller Foundation provided 
Bernard Knox with a resident fellowship at the Villa Serbelloni in April 
1991, when he began to write the Introduction. And the staff of Compar- 
ative Literature at Princeton, Carol Szymanski and Cass Garner, have 
been invaluable to us both as we prepared the work for publication. 

To produce the book at hand, my editor, Kathryn Court, assisted by 
Laurie Walsh, has treated the writing and the writer, too, with insight, 
affection and address. As my manuscript editor, Beena Kamlani's efforts 
to tame and train a fairly unruly piece of work have been heroic. The 
good people at Viking Penguin— Barbara Grossman, Cathy Hemming, 
Paul Slovak, Leigh Butler— all have been loyal allies in New York, where 
Peter Mayer — like Peter Carson and Paul Keegan in London — has been a 
gracious host to the latest Homer in the house. Ann Gold with all her 
artistry, in coordination with Junie Lee, has designed a volume to com- 
panion the Iliad that came before it, and Maggie Payette and Neil Stuart 
have created its handsome jacket. Roni Axelrod and Cynthia Achar 
oversaw the production of the book, and Marjorie Horvitz's sharp eye 
was helpful to the text. Dan Lundy, Mary Sunden and Maria Barbieri 
have labored long and hard with Joe Marcey and Peter Smith to find this 
version of the Odyssey some readers. Mark Stafford, Susan Mosakowski 
and Mary Kohl have done the same to find some listeners, too, pro- 
ducing the Penguin Audiobook, read by Ian McKellen, who performs the 



496 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



translation as if he were personifying Homer. My former editor Alan 
Williams, who saw me through the straits of Aeschylus and Sophocles, 
gave my plans a timely push toward Troy, then home again to Greece 
with the old dog Argos as our guide. And through it all, without the 
unfailing stay and strategies of my friend and agent Georges Borchardt, 
assisted by Cindy Klein for several years, this translation might not have 
seen the light. 

The Odyssey, the perennial poem of adventure, stops but never really 
ends. Seen in one way, Odysseus is forever outward bound, off to 
another country to appease Poseidon in the future, and changing 
through the centuries as he goes, "the man of twists and turns," of many 
incarnations, with as many destinations. Among them are Virgil's 
Aeneas, who makes his way toward Rome, and Dante's Ulysses moving 
toward "the world where no one lives," and Milton's Adam toward "a 
paradise within thee, happier far," and Tennyson's restless mariner 
toward "the baths / of all the western stars," and Joyce's Bloom toward 
the New Bloomusalem, until he settles for dear dirty Dublin and the 
moly that is Molly. For as Joyce makes clear, an equal adventure lies 
within the bounds of Homer's poem itself. There, after twenty years of 
warfaring and wayfaring, Odysseus circles back toward Penelope, and 
the two together reach their resting place and share a kingdom with their 
offspring, as if to say, with great good spirit, that life continues here and 
now at home. If the translation offers any sense of this, the translator 
thanks his daughters, Katya and Nina, and first and last the Muse he calls 
on in the dedication, Lynne. 



R. F. 



Princeton, N.J. 
June 17, 1996 



THE GENEALOGY 

OF THE ROYAL HOUSE 

OF ODYSSEUS 

ZEUS 



AUTOLYCUS = AMPHITHEA ARCESIUS 



ANTICLEIA = LAERTES 



ICARIUS 



I 1 I I 

CTIMENE ODYSSEUS = PENELOPE IPHTHIME = EUMELUS 



TELEMACHUS 



497 



THE GENEALOGY 

OF THE ROYAL HOUSE 

OF PHAEACIA 

EURYMEDON 

PERIBOEA = POSEIDON 

NAUSITHOUS 



RHEXENOR 



ALCINOUS 



ARETE = ALCINOUS 



NAUSICAA LAODAMAS AND OTHER SONS 



498 



THE GENEALOGY 
OF THEOCLYMENUS 



MELAMPUS [SEE GENEALOGY OF TYRO] 



ANTIPHATES 



OICLES 



AMPHIARAUS 



MANTIUS 



I I 

ALCMAEON AMPHILOCHUS 



I 1 

POLYPHIDES CLITUS 



THEOCLYMENUS 



499 



THE GENEALOGY 
OF TYRO 



DEUCALION 



HELLEN 



AEOLUS 



SALMONEUS 



CRETHEUS 



POSEIDON 



I 1 

NELEUS = CHLORIS PELIAS 



TYRO 



CRETHEUS 



AESON PHERES AMYTHAON 



1 1 1 

CHROMIUS NESTOR PERICLYMENUS PERO JASON = MEDEA MELAMPUS 



NESTOR = EURYDICE 



I 1 1 

ANTILOCHUS, PIRITHOUS, THRASYMEDES ET AL. 



TEXTUAL VARIANTS FROM 
THE OXFORD CLASSICAL TEXT 



2.11 


duo 


9.199 


paisi 


2.191 


Omitted 


9.483 


Omitted 


3.131 


Omitted 


13.400 


anthropon 


4.399 


xeine 


15.345 


Omitted 


4.465 


ereeineis 


18.402 


me thee ke 


4.783 


Omitted 


23.320 


Omitted 


5.91 


Omitted 







501 



NOTES ON 
THE TRANSLATION 



(Here and throughout the Pronouncing Glossary that follows, line numbers refer 
to the translation, where the line numbers of the Greek text will be found at the 
top of every page.) 

1.20 that year spun out by the gods when he should reach his home: The tenth year 
since the sack of Troy, the twentieth year since Odysseus left Ithaca. 

1.34-55 Aegisthus, I the man Agamemnon's son, renowned Orestes, killed: Throughout 
the Odyssey, the events in the House of Atreus will provide a continuous back- 
ground to Homer's narrative. Taken in sequence, these events begin with the 
successful vengeance of Orestes — which is chosen by Zeus as an example of jus- 
tice (1.34-55) — then are used by Athena to rouse the courage of Telemachus 
(1.341-47), and then by Nestor (3.289-357) not only to encourage the prince but 
also to caution him with the additional stories of Clytemnestra's infidelity and 
the wanderings of Menelaus, absent from Argos when Agamemnon was assassi- 
nated. Next Menelaus tells Telemachus how Proteus informed him of Agamem- 
non's murder by Aegisthus (4.573-604); and the crime is dramatized when, in 
the underworld, Odysseus learns from the ghost of Agamemnon how both he 
and Cassandra were murdered by his wife together with her lover (11.457-98). 
However optimistic the climax of Orestes' vengeance, in other words, each ver- 
sion of Agamemnon's death presents a greater darkness, and so a starker foil for 
the luminous reunion of Odysseus and Penelope; until at the end of the Odyssey 
(24.210-23) Agamemnon's ghost calls for a song to immortalize the virtue of 
Penelope and another to condemn the perfidy of Clytemnestra. As W. B. Stan- 
ford observes (his note 24.196-98), Homer has provided the first, and Aeschylus, 
in the Oresteia, the second. See note 4.590. 

1.62 Atlas, wicked Titan: In other accounts, Atlas is a giant who holds up the sky 
"with his hard and unwearying hands" (Hesiod, Theogony 519). Here he appar- 
ently stands in the sea and supports pillars that perform the same function. His 
location in the sea rather than on land (as in Hesiod) may be due to influence 
from Near Eastern myths. Why he is called "wicked" we do not know. 

1.375 The Achaeans' Journey Home from Troy: Phemius' song is one of those poems 
(now lost) that the Greeks called Nostoi — Returns Home. During the capture and 
sack of Troy, Ajax, son of Oileus (not the Great Ajax, son of Telamon, who had 
killed himself before Troy fell: see 11.620-45 and note 11.625), attempted to 
rape Cassandra, King Priam's daughter, in the temple of Athena, where she had 

503 



504 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



taken refuge. The Achaeans failed to punish him for this offense, and Athena 
retaliated by arranging for storm winds to blow most of them off course on their 
way home. Ajax was killed by Poseidon when he had almost reached home (see 
4.560-73), Menelaus wandered for seven years, Odysseus for ten. 

1.443 king of Ithaca: The Greek word translated as "king," basileus, does not carry 
the connotation of hereditary monarchical rule inherent in the English word. In 
the kingdom of Phaeacia, Alcinous announces: "There are twelve peers of the 
realm who rule our land, / thirteen, counting myself" (8.435-36). The word he 
uses is basilees. They are all kings, but he is, so to speak, top king. That is why 
Telemachus can say: "I'd be happy to take the crown if Zeus presents it" (1.447). 
It is a position won by acclaim and superior wealth and achievement, and clearly 
Antinous, as the leader of the suitors, thinks himself in line for the position once 
he marries Penelope. 

2.172 they swooped away on the right: The lucky side for omens, lucky at least for 
Telemachus in this case. The idea that signs on the right are lucky and on the left 
unlucky is common in many cultures and languages: our word "sinister," for 
example, is the Latin word for "left." See 15.179-84, 588-98, 20.269, 24.348-50. 

2.371 splitting up his goods: In the event of Telemachus' death, the palace and all 
its property would revert to Penelope and whichever of the suitors she chose to 
marry. The suitor here seems to be suggesting a division of Telemachus' property 
as a consolation prize for those who do not win Penelope's hand. The speech 
emphasizes once again the reckless illegality of the suitors' proceedings. See 
Introduction, pp. 31, 39. 

3.46 daughter of Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder: The shield is the aegis (liter- 
ally "goatskin"). It is sometimes displayed by Zeus himself, and by Apollo, as well 
as by Athena. Its shape is not easily determined from the text: at times it seems to 
be a shield, for the figure of the Gorgon's head and other forms of terror appear 
on it. Its effect seems to be to stiffen morale among those it is raised to protect 
and inspire terror in those who lace it. 

3.81-83 roving the waves like pirates: See Introduction, pp. 28-29. 

3.121-25 There Ajax lies ... Achilles ... Patroclus ... Antilochus: Ajax, son of 
Telamon, the greatest of the Achaean warriors after Achilles, killed himself when 
the arms and armor of the dead Achilles, offered by his mother, Thetis, as a prize 
to the bravest champion, were given to Odysseus (see 11.620-45 and note 
1 1.625). Achilles was killed by an arrow shot by Paris, son of Priam; Patroclus, his 
closest friend, was killed by Euphorbus, Hector and Apollo. Antilochus, who had 
come to the aid of his father, Nestor, was killed by the Ethiopian prince Memnon, 
an ally of the Trojans. 

3.150 [Athena's] rage: See note 1.375. 

3.213-14 the shining son I of lionhearted Achilles: Neoptolemus (whose name means 



NOTES ON THE TRANSLATION 



505 



"new war") came to Troy after Achilles' death and, together with Philoctetes, 
who wielded the unerring bow of Heracles, led the fight against the Trojans (see 
11.583-606). Idomeneus, a Cretan king, is often mentioned later in Odysseus' 
false travel tales (see 13.294, 14.269, 19.218). 

3.215 Philoctetes: His safe return concludes a well-known story about the final 
phase of the Trojan War. The Achaeans, unable to take Troy, learned of a 
prophecy that they would be able to do so only with the aid of Philoctetes and his 
bow, a famous weapon that he had inherited from Heracles. They had to send an 
embassy to Lemnos to persuade him to come and help them. This embassy is the 
subject of Sophocles' tragedy Philoctetes. 

3.346-47 Orestes / home from Athens: In Athenian tragedy, he always comes home 
from Phocis, in central Greece. This may be due to the fact that Aeschylus, in the 
last play of the Oresteia (458 B.C.), brings him to Athens to stand trial for his 
mother's murder — a coup de theatre that would have been spoiled if he had come 
from there in the first place. 

3.373 cut out the victims' tongues: The tongues of the sacrificed animals, like the 
thighbones, are reserved for the gods. In this case they were cut out when the 
bulls were sacrificed in the morning (3.6-10) but put aside as a late evening 
offering. The first drops of wine are for the libation: the wine poured on the fire 
for the gods. 

3.423 Zeus' s daughter . . . his third born: This is a literal rendering of Athena's title 
Tritogeneia, but the meaning of the word is disputed. Some ancient sources con- 
nect it with Lake Tritonis in Libya, where Zeus sent Athena to be reared, or with 
the river Triton in Boeotia. A modern explanation compares the Athenian Tri- 
topateres, i.e., genuine ancestors: this would give the meaning "genuine daughter 
of Zeus." 

3.485-520 Athena came . . . I to attend her sacred rites: What happens in the fol- 
lowing passage is a sacrifice to the gods that is also a feast for the human wor- 
shipers (this was the way meat was eaten in the ancient world). The animal is 
placed at the altar, and the sacrificers wash their hands to establish purity for the 
ritual. They scatter barley on the victim, then stun the animal with a blow on the 
head, pull back its head and cut its throat over the altar. The animal's skin is 
taken off and a portion of the meat prepared for the gods. This is a choice portion, 
the meat of the thighbones: it is wrapped in a double fold of fat and the outside 
covered with small pieces of meat from different parts of the animal. This portion 
is burned over the fire — the smoke and savor go up to the gods above. Wine is 
poured over it, a libation. The sacrificers at last begin their meal — with the 
entrails, which they have roasted on forks over the fire. They then carve the car- 
cass and roast portions of meat on spits and set them out for the feast. 

4.6 the son of great Achilles: Neoptolemus, who married Hermione, the daughter 
of Helen and Menelaus. See 11.576ff. and note 3.213-14. 



506 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



4.96 Three times in the circling year the ewes give birth: A typical traveler's yarn about 
a far-off region — it is an impossibility for ewes to bear three cycles of lambs in 
every year, since the gestation period for sheep is about 1 50 days. 

4.106 I lost this handsome palace built for the ages: Presumably because he did not see 
it for seventeen years; but also because Paris and Helen, when they left, stripped 
it of all its treasures. In the Iliad the terms of the duel between Menelaus and 
Paris in Book 3 are that if Paris wins he will keep "Helen and all her wealth"; if 
not, the Trojans will surrender Helen and "those treasures" (3.86-88). 

4.144 tripods: Large metal pots or cauldrons standing on three legs so they can 
straddle a fire. Often highly ornamented for presentation as a gift or prize, they 
were unusually valuable and rare. 

4.165 Odysseus' feet were like the boy's: Since ancient Greeks went barefoot or wore 
sandals most of the time, familiarity with the shape of someone else's foot was 
nothing strange. In Aeschylus' tragedy The Libation Bearers Electra recognizes the 
footprints left on the ground by her brother Orestes. 

4.304-6 What a piece of work the hero dared: Odysseus' most famous exploit, cele- 
brated in song at the court of Alcinous (8.559-84) and invoked by Athena dis- 
guised as Mentor to spur him on in the fight against the suitors (22.236-41), was 
to plan and participate in the stratagem that brought about the fall of Troy — the 
wooden horse in which he and a band of Achaean heroes were concealed while 
the Trojans brought it into the city as an offering to Athena. 

4.454 his lovely ocean-lady: The wife of Proteus, who is either Thetis or 
Amphitrite. 

4.560-73 Ajax . . . went down: Little Ajax, son of Oileus. See note 1.375. 

4.574-86 Agamemnon got away I in his beaked ships: This passage shows Homer's 
uncertain grasp of the geography of the western side of the Aegean Sea. 
Agamemnon's home is Argos; he would have no reason to sail as far south as 
Cape Malea on his way home. Furthermore, the prevailing wind at the cape is 
NE; it is the wind that blows Odysseus' ship SW into the unknown world. It is 
also far from clear exactly where Aegisthus' home is. It must be close to 
Agamemnon's if Aegisthus is able to prepare an ambush in his palace, then go 
out to meet the king as soon as his spy reports his arrival, yet at 581-83 it sounds 
as if it were far away. The confusion here may stem from the amalgamation of 
two different accounts of Agamemnon's return home. See Introduction, p. 26. 

4.590 One whole year he'd watched: Presumably Aegisthus posted the watchman 
during the tenth year of the Trojan War, the year that Calchas has prophesied 
would see the city's fall. A simple hireling of Aegisthus in the Odyssey, the 
watchman becomes a loyal servant of Agamemnon in Aeschylus' Oresteia, where 
he unwittingly ensures the king's death by rushing the news of his arrival to 
Clytemnestra, his queen. 



NOTES ON THE TRANSLATION 



507 



4.632-41 it's not for you to die: This special dispensation for Menelaus has nothing 
to do with merit: he qualifies for Elysium simply because he is the husband of 
Helen, who will later be worshiped as a goddess at Sparta and elsewhere in 
Greece. 

4.663 three stallions and a chariot: Two under the yoke and a third to serve as a 
trace horse. 

4.738 he boarded ship for Pylos days ago: Actually Athena did, disguised as Mentor, 
and the goddess set sail with Telemachus for Pylos four days before. 

4.857 sifting barley into a basket: Barley is scattered on the sacrificial animal before 
it is killed (see 3.498-502). We do not know what Penelope intends to do with it: 
pour it out as a sort of libation? offer it to the goddess? 

5.60 that island worlds apart: Ogygia, home of Calypso. 

5.134-40 Orion . . . Demeter . . . Iasion: Orion was a giant huntsman with whom 
Eos, the dawn goddess, fell in love; after his death he became a constellation. 
Demeter was the goddess of the crops and especially of wheat; the place where 
she made love with Iasion was a field ritually plowed with a triple furrow at the 
beginning of the plowing season. 

5.161 the guide and giant-killer: In the Greek, two regular epithets of Hermes. He 
is called the guide or escort (the meaning of the word is disputed) because he is 
often sent by Zeus to act in that role, as at the start of Book 24, when he escorts 
the dead souls of the suitors to the underworld. The other epithet refers to the 
fact that, at the request of Zeus, Hermes killed a monster of immense strength 
called Argos, who had eyes all over his body, so that he could keep some of them 
open when he slept. He was killed because Hera had sent him to guard Io, a 
woman Zeus was in love with, whom Hera had changed into a cow. 

5.205 the Styx: The main river of the underworld was the guarantor of oaths 
sworn by the gods. Any one of the gods, Hesiod tells us (Theogony 793-806), who 
pours a libation of the river's water and swears falsely is paralyzed for one year 
and for nine years after that is excluded from the feasts and assemblies of the 
gods. See note 10.563-65. 

5.299-302 the stars . . . the Plowman . . . the Great Bear . . . the Hunter: "Plowman" is 
the English equivalent of the Greek name Bootes, a constellation that sets in the 
late evening. "The Wagon" is the constellation also known as the Big Dipper and 
the Great Bear. As seen from the northern hemisphere, it never disappears below 
the horizon or, as Homer puts it, "plunge[s] in the Ocean's baths." The Great 
Bear is referred to as "she" (301) because she was originally the nymph Callisto, 
who ranged the woods as one of the virgin companions of the goddess Artemis. 
Zeus made her pregnant, and when this could no longer be concealed, Artemis 
changed her into a bear and killed her. Zeus in turn changed her into the constel- 
lation. The Hunter is Orion. 



508 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



5.367 Ino, a mortal woman once: Ino, daughter of Cadmus, jumped into the sea at 
Corinth with her infant son in her arms, in flight from her insane husband, 
Athamas. Her new name — Leucothea — means "white goddess." 

6.156-57 fling his arms around her knees . . . /plead for help: What Odysseus declines 
to adopt is the position of the suppliant — kneeling, clasping the knees of the 
person supplicated, reaching up to his (or her) chin. It is a gesture that symbol- 
izes the utter helplessness of the suppliant, his abject dependence, but at the 
same time applies a physical and moral constraint on the person so addressed. 
The Greeks believed that Zeus was the protector and champion of suppliants. See 
10.359, 530. 

6.245 / would be embarrassed: He has of course been naked all along, but shielding 
his privates with the olive branch— "the first gentleman in Europe," as Joyce 
described Odysseus in this scene. Since, however, men are regularly bathed by 
young women elsewhere in the poem (3.521-24, 4.56-57), his modesty here 
seems strange. It may be due to the fact that, unlike Telemachus when he is 
bathed by Nestor's youngest daughter and Odysseus himself when bathed by 
Circe's handmaids, he is now "a terrible sight ... all crusted, caked with brine." 
From Homer's point of view, of course, it is necessary to get him off by himself so 
that Athena can make him "taller to all eyes, / his build more massive now." 

7.62-63 Arete, she is called, and earns the name: I she answers all our prayers: The 
name brings to mind the Greek verb araomai, "pray," which suggests the meaning 
"prayed for" (by her parents) as well as "prayed to" (by suppliants like Odysseus). 

7.64 the same stock that bred our King Alcinous: See Genealogy (adapted from Gar- 
vie), p. 498. 

7.233 Spinners: The Fates. They were visualized as three women spinning thread, 
a normal household occupation for Greek women: the thread was a human life. 
After Homer they were given names: Clotho ("Spinner"), Lachesis ("Allotter" — 
she decided how long the thread should be), and Atropos ("one who cannot be 
turned back"), who cuts the thread. 

7.368 more distant than Euboea: A long, narrow island off the eastern coast of 
Greece; for the Phaeacians, who apparently live in the fabulous west, it is "off at 
the edge of the world" (369). 

7.371-72 Rhadamanthys . . . Tityus: Rhadamanthys was a legendary Cretan king 
who after his death went to Elysium (4.635). Tityus was one of the great leg- 
endary sinners; for his attempt to rape the goddess Leto, the mother of Apollo 
and Artemis, he was eternally tortured in the lower world (11.660-68). Why 
Rhadamanthys went to Euboea to visit him we do not know. 

8.41 a crew of fifty -two young sailors: The ship is apparently a penteconter, and so 
requires fifty oarsmen plus two officers. 



NOTES ON THE TRANSLATION 



509 



8.89-98 The Strife Between Odysseus and Achilles: Our sources do not explain the 
cause of the strife between the two. See Introduction, p. 23. 

8.129-39 young champions rose for competition: The translation attempts to gloss the 
Homeric names of the Phaeacian competitors in terms of their root meanings in 
Greek, all of them fittingly nautical for a seafaring people. In doing so, the trans- 
lator has followed the lead of earlier translators of the Odyssey, W. H. D. Rowse 
(1937) and Robert Fitzgerald (1961), as well as his own practice in glossing the 
names of the Nereids in the Iliad (18.43-56). The translator uses the same 
strategy with other, though far from all, "significant names" in the Odyssey: with 
those of Odysseus' forebears, for example, as Autolycus cites them in Book 
19.460-64, and with Odysseus' fictitious parents in Book 24.340-42. See notes 
9.410, 10.563-65, 19.299, 19.460-64, 24.341-42. 

8.144 the length two mules will plow a furrow: This length (ouron) is the customary 
length Greek plowmen went before turning; we have no accurate figure for it, 
and the usual guess is 30 to 40 meters. 

8.302-410 The Love of Ares and Aphrodite: Hephaestus, the smith god, is lame. This 
may be a reflection of the fact that in a community where agriculture and war 
are the predominant features in the life of its men, someone with weak legs and 
strong arms would probably become a blacksmith. He seems to have been lame 
from birth: in the Iliad (18.461-64) he says that his mother, Hera, threw him out 
of Olympus because of this defect. 

8.321-22 Lemnos: A center of the cult of Hephaestus, Lemnos was an island noted 
for its volcanic gas and inhabited by people whom Homer identifies as Sintians 
(see 8.334), who rescued Hephaestus after his fall from Mount Olympus. 

8.361 our Father: Zeus, the father of both Aphrodite and Hephaestus. 

9.27 [Ithaca] lies low and away, the farthest out to sea: For the vagueness of Homeric 
geography see Introduction, p. 26, and note 4.574-86. 

9.74 the triple cry: A funeral rite, presumably a farewell to the dead; three times 
presumably to make sure the dead hear the cry. 

9.232 twenty cups of water he'd stir in one of wine: A powerful wine indeed. Ancient 
Greeks drank their wine diluted with water (as do many modern Greeks), but the 
usual proportions of water to wine were 3:1 or 3:2. 

9.410 Nobody — that's my name: The Greek word outis, the name Odysseus gives 
himself, is formed from the normal Greek locution for "nobody" — ou tis, "not 
anybody." This enables Homer to make brilliant use of wordplay that cannot be 
adequately reproduced in English. When his fellow Cyclops ask Polyphemus why 
he is making such an uproar and he tells them "Nobody's killing me now by 
fraud and not by force," they naturally misunderstand it and reply, "If . . . 
nobody's trying to overpower you . . ." (456-57). But in Greek their reply has a 
different form for "no one": not ou tis but me tis, the usual form for use after the 



510 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



word "if." But me tis, "not anyone," sounds exactly the same as metis, a key word 
of the Odyssey, the main characteristic of its hero: craft, cunning. And Poly- 
phemus is in fact being overpowered by the metis, the craft and cunning of 
Odysseus. See, for example, 4.119, 8.229, 9.452-63, 508-14, 573, 20.23, 23.142. 

9.560-62 Odysseus, I raider of cities . . . I Laertes ' son who makes his home in Ithaca: For 
the importance of Odysseus' declaration of his name, see Introduction, pp. 32, 39. 

9.590-95 if he's fated to see I his people once again . . . let him find a world of pain at 
home: Polyphemus' curse will be repeated by Tiresias as prophecy in the under- 
world (11.125-35) and by Circe as a solemn warning on the island of Aeaea 
(12.148-53). 

10.563-65 there into Acheron . . . rivers flow: The names Acheron and Styx are 
glossed in the translation; the Greek name of the River of Fire is Pyriphlegethon 
and that of the River of Tears, Cocytus. Milton has made their names and ety- 
mologies resound in Paradise Lost: 

. . . four infernal Rivers that disgorge 

Into the burning Lake their baleful streams: 

Abhorred Styx the flood of deadly hate, 

Sad Acheron of sorrow, black and deep; 

Cocytus, nam'd of lamentation loud 

Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegeton 

Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage. 2.575-81 

11.146 a fan to winnow grain: Before the invention of a threshing machine in 
1784, grain was beaten on a flat surface on a windy hill; it was then thrown up 
into the wind to blow away the chaff in a shallow basket fixed to the end of a 
long handle, a winnowing fan. 

11.154 a gentle, painless death, far from the sea: Aeschylus and Sophocles may 
have understood the words as "out of the sea," for they both wrote tragedies 
based on a legend that Odysseus was killed by a fishbone, either through blood 
poisoning from a scratch or as the result of a wound inflicted by a spear tipped 
with fishbone, which Telegonus, his son by Circe, wielded. But the words "a 
gentle, painless death" tell against this interpretation. 

11.268 Tyro: Among her descendants are Nestor, Jason, the leader of the Argo- 
nauts, and Melampus, the grandfather of Theoclymenus. See Introduction, 
p. 26, and Genealogies (adapted from Jones and Stanford), pp. 499, 500. 

11.307 Epicaste: She is called Iocaste (Jocasta) in Sophocles' play Oedipus the King, 
in which Oedipus, when he learns the truth, blinds himself and leaves Thebes, in 
exile. 

11.318 Chloris: Daughter of Amphion of Orchomenos (not the Amphion who 
founded Thebes; see 11.298). She was married to Neleus, father of Nestor. Neleus 
would give the hand of their daughter Pero only to the man who could recover 



NOTES ON THE TRANSLATION 



511 



his stolen cattle from Iphiclus, who had driven the herd from Pylos to his home 
at Phylace in Thessaly. Melampus, captured in an attempt to recover the cattle, 
was imprisoned but released because of his prophetic skills. A different form of 
the story is given at 1 5.250-85. See note ad loc, and Genealogies, pp. 499, 500. 

11.343 Castor . . . Polydeuces: Twin sons of Leda, who are often referred to as the 
Dioscuri — "sons of Zeus." The extraordinary privilege granted them — that they 
should come back to life on alternate days — was attributed to the fact that one 
was the son of Zeus and the other of Tyndareus, Leda's human husband. (The 
usual English form of Polydeuces is Pollux.) 

11.351 Otus . . . Ephialtes: The best-known version of the story is that they piled 
Mount Pelion on Mount Ossa in Thessaly to reach Mount Olympus, the home of 
the gods; here the gods are imagined as living in the sky. 

11.364 Ariadne: She helped Theseus kill the Minotaur and left Crete with him 
but, according to the usual version of the story, was abandoned by him on the 
island of Dia off the northern shore of Crete (on the island of Naxos in other 
accounts), where Dionysus came to take her as his bride, and she "play[ed] the 
queen," as Robert Graves has said, "to nobler company." Why the god 
denounced her in Homer's version we do not know. 

11.369 Eriphyle: She accepted from Polynices, leader of the Seven Against Thebes, 
a necklace as a bribe for persuading her husband, the prophet Amphiaraus, to 
join the expedition, in which he met his death. 

11.591 Eurypylus: Like Amphiaraus, he lost his life as the result of a bribe, this 
time one accepted from King Priam of Troy by his mother, who persuaded her 
son to fight on the Trojan side. 

11.625 Pallas and captive Trojans served as judges: The captured sons of the Trojans 
would obviously be competent judges of the fighting qualities of their opponents. 
Athena, however, who favored Odysseus in all things, was hardly an impartial 
judge. The unexpected decision was such a shock to Ajax that he went berserk 
and tried to kill Agamemnon, Menelaus and Odysseus but, thwarted, killed him- 
self instead. His suicide is the subject of Sophocles' tragedy Ajax. See note 
3.121-25. 

11.660-68 Tityus: See note 7.371-72. 

11.669-80 Tantalus: Homer takes for granted the audience's knowledge of Tan- 
talus' offense. Later accounts of it differ in detail, but food and drink play a part 
in most of them. One version has Tantalus, who was a confidant and often 
invited guest of the gods, invite them to his palace for a feast and serve up to 
them the cooked flesh of his son Pelops, as a test of their divine powers of per- 
ception. They all refused the meat, except Demeter, who gnawed on a shoulder. 
After Tantalus was dispatched to his everlasting punishment in Hades — doomed, 
fittingly enough, to eternal thirst and hunger — Pelops was put back together 



512 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



again and brought to life; the missing part of his shoulder was replaced by a 
marble prosthesis, which was on display centuries later at Olympia, the site of the 
games founded by Pelops. 

11.681-89 Sisyphus: A great trickster (in some accounts he is the real father of 
Odysseus), who tricked even the God of Death. On his deathbed he told his wife 
not to perform the funeral rituals for him. Once in Hades, he complained that his 
wife had left him unburied and asked permission to return and persuade her to 
do her duty. Permission was given, but once at home, he refused to return and 
lived on to a ripe old age. 

11.690-718 Heracles: The greatest of the Greek heroes, Heracles eventually, after 
his death, became an immortal god. He was the son of Zeus and a mortal woman, 
Alcmena. Zeus intended that he should lord it over all who dwell around him, 
but Zeus's jealous wife, Hera, contrived to have that destiny conferred on Eurys- 
theus, king of Argos, to whom Heracles was to be subject. At Eurystheus' com- 
mand, Heracles performed the famous twelve labors: among them was the 
capture of the three-headed dog, Cerberus, the guardian of the entrance to the 
underworld. Homer attributes Heracles' death to Hera's anger, but in other poets' 
versions of his death Hera plays no part. See notes 3.213-14, 3.215. 

12.68 Clashing Rocks: The Greek word Homer uses means something like "Wan- 
dering Rocks" but clearly he is drawing on the story of the Symplegades (a word 
which does mean Clashing Rocks), between which even the doves bringing 
ambrosia to Zeus could get caught. They are a prominent feature of the story of 
Jason and the Argonauts, which is mentioned as a well-known theme for song at 
12.76-80. See Introduction, p. 26. 

12.285 Hyperion: A name which, whatever its true etymology, suggests the 
meaning "the one who goes above," and is another name of Helios, the sun. 

12.337 the night's third watch: The night was divided into three parts, each approx- 
imately four hours long. 

12.384 fresh green leaves . . . for the rite: A substitute for the barley scattered over 
the sacrificial animal. Later, lacking wine, they made libations with water. It is 
appropriate that, since the slaughter of the cattle is an offense to the god, the 
ritual should fall far short of proper procedure. 

13.180 Then pile your huge mountain round about their port: For Zeus's encourage- 
ment of Poseidon here, see Introduction, pp. 43-47. 

14.63 And you replied, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd: Homer is fond of introducing 
Eumaeus in the second person, as he often does Patroclus and Menelaus in the 
Iliad. In the Odyssey it may be the result of a metrical convenience or a vestige of 
older, bardic practice or, as Stanford (his note 14.55) and other commentators, 
following the lead of Eustathius, suggest, "a mark of the poet's special affection 
for Eumaeus." 



NOTES ON THE TRANSLATION 



513 



14.494 the forest nymphs and Hermes: One share of Eumaeus' supper is set aside 
for a local cult of the wood nymphs, another share for Hermes, in his role as 
patron god of herdsmen. 

15.21 bride-price: See 8.361 and Introduction, pp. 14, 17. 

15.80-1 you know, I 'Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest!': This is Pope's 
translation of the line, adopted here but enclosed in quotation marks as if, by 
a spin of reverse English, it had become proverbial in our language, even 
though spoken by Menelaus centuries before. Pope in his Horatian Imitations 
{Satires Il.ii. 160), introducing it as "sage Homer's rule," later revised the line to 
read "welcome the coming, speed the going guest." This translator prefers the 
Odyssean version. See Introduction, p. 31. 

15.250-85 Melampus' line of seers: A different version of the story told at 
11.318-40. Here Neleus drives Melampus out and confiscates his property. We 
do not know why Phylacus (Iphiclus in the other version) imprisoned Melampus, 
nor why he was persecuted by the Furies, nor how he avenged himself on 
Neleus. In this version he wins Neleus' daughter Pero not for himself but for his 
brother. Homer does not mention it, but we learn from Hesiod that Melampus, 
who could understand the speech of birds and animals, was released from prison 
because he had heard worms in the palace roofbeams discussing how thoroughly 
they had undermined the structure, and so Melampus warned his captor that the 
building would soon collapse. See Genealogies, pp. 499, 500, and note 11.318. 

15.276 undone by a bribe his wife accepted: See note 1 1.369. 

16.131-35 Zeus made our line a line of only sons: See Genealogy, p. 497. 

17.602-9 Telemachus shook with a lusty sneeze: Ancient Greeks regarded a sneeze as 
an omen, since it is something a human being can neither produce at will nor 
control when it arrives. Hence it must be the work of a god. 

18.6-9 Arnaeus . . . Irus: Arnaeus is called Irus presumably because, like Iris the 
messenger of the gods, he runs errands for the suitors. 

18.277 Ionian Argos: The adjective usually designates Greek settlements on the 
Aegean islands and what is now the western coast of Turkey, whose inhabitants 
spoke a dialect known as Ionian. Argos is in the Peloponnese, but there is good 
evidence for an Ionian presence there in very early times. 

19.94 thanks to god Apollo: In his aspect of Apollo kourotrophos, the rearer of 
young men. 

19.203-5 Minos: The legendary king of Crete, whose name has been given to the 
civilization unearthed by archaeologists in the early years of our century. Minos 
ruled Crete either in nine-year cycles or, as Plato understood the Homeric line, 
went every ninth year to the cave of Zeus to confer with the god and bring back 
laws for his people. Together with another Cretan king, Rhadamanthys, he is 



514 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



sometimes mentioned as one of the judges in the world of the dead. See 
11.650-55. 

19.299 Destroy, I call it — I hate to say its name: The translation attempts to repro- 
duce the effect of a remarkable turn of phrase in Penelope's speech: she calls the 
city she does not wish to mention kakoilion, combining the Greek word for evil — 
kakos — with the name Won, an alternative name for Troy. See 19.673, 23.21. 

19.407 your master's . . . equal in years: The pause indicated in the translation, 
allowing the reader to imagine for a second that Penelope has penetrated 
Odysseus' disguise, attempts to reproduce a similar effect that Homer produced 
for the ears of his audience, but through Greek word order rather than a pause. 

19.463-64 Odysseus ... I the Son of Pain, a name he'll earn in full: The name 
"Odysseus" may be associated with the Greek verb odussomai — to feel anger 
toward, to rage or hate. The verb, however, appears to function in the middle 
voice, a cross between the active and the passive, implying that Odysseus is not 
only an agent of rage or hatred but its target too. Particularly to the point are the 
discussions by John Peradotto (pp. 29-34) and George Dimock (pp. 257-60), 
who suggest that Odysseus suffers for making others suffer, not as an end in itself 
but, insofar as odussomai brings to mind the verb odino — to suffer pain, especially 
the pain of labor — as the rigors by which the hero brings his identity to life. Con- 
sequently Dimock proposes that we translate "Odysseus" as "man of pain" — 
active and passive, doing and done to, agent and victim both, inflicting and 
bearing pain yet somehow born himself in the process. That is the version which 
this translator adopts and adapts throughout his work. Yet when Homer intends 
a pun between the root of the hero's name and the hostility he arouses in others, 
the translator tries to develop some wordplay, wherever possible, between 
"Odysseus" and those "dead set" against him. See 1.75, 5.373, 19.317; and, as 
variations on the theme, 3.106, 4.364, 5.467, 23.349-51, 24.341-42. 

19.585-90 Pandareus' daughter, the nightingale: Her name was Aedon (which is the 
Greek word for nightingale). She had only one son, but her sister-in-law Niobe 
had many; in a fit of jealous rage, she tried to kill Niobe's eldest son but by mis- 
take killed her own son, Itylus. Zeus turned her into a nightingale, mourning her 
son in song forever. There is a different version of the story that is familiar to us 
from the Latin and our own poets, in which Procne, an Athenian princess, mar- 
ried Tereus, a Thracian king. Tereus raped Procne's sister, Philomela, and then 
cut out her tongue to prevent her from denouncing him to her sister. But 
Philomela wove the story into a tapestry to show Procne, who then killed Itys, 
her son by Tereus, cooked the flesh and served it to her husband, who ate it. 
When told what he had eaten, Tereus tried to kill both sisters, but Zeus turned 
them all into birds: Procne became the nightingale, eternally mourning Itys, 
Philomela the swallow and Tereus the hoopoe. 

19.633-38 Two gates . . . for our evanescent dreams: Why the ivory gate should be 



NOTES ON THE TRANSLATION 



515 



the exit for false dreams and the gate of horn for true has never been satisfacto- 
rily explained. 

19.644 a contest with those axes: There has been much controversy about the axes 
and still no agreement. When in 21.137-41 Telemachus sets them up for the 
contest, he digs a trench in the dirt floor of the hall, plants them in it in a straight 
line and stamps the earth down to hold them firm. Many editors have assumed 
that what he planted in the trench were the ax blades, with the holes for the 
helves lined up. But to shoot an arrow through such a lineup, the archer would 
have to be lying on the floor, an impossible position from which to draw the 
bow, not to mention making such a difficult shot. In any case, we are told 
(21.467-68) that when Odysseus does shoot an arrow through the axes he is sit- 
ting on a stool. So the holes the arrow goes through must be at least two feet off 
the ground. The only possible solution seems to be that the axes all have a metal 
ring on the end of the helve, presumably so that the ax could be hung on a nail 
in the wall. 

20.73-87 the whirlwinds swept away Pandareus' daughters: This story of the death of 
Pandareus' daughters, none of them named, seems to have no connection with 
the tale of the nightingale. See 19.585-90 and note ad loc. 

20.307 Apollo's grand festal day: It is a significant coincidence that the archery con- 
test, which will bring about the deaths of the suitors and Odysseus' reinstatement 
in his own home, is to take place on the festival day of Apollo, the archer god. 
See 8.246-60 and note 21.16. 

20.395 Ghosts, look: Presumably those of the suitors, glimpsed here in a visionary, 
prophetic way but clearly present, following their slaughter in Book 22, at the 
beginning of Book 24. 

21.16 Eurytus: One of the great archers Odysseus mentions when he claims mas- 
tery of the bow among the Phaeacians (8.246-60). Eurytus had even challenged 
Apollo to a contest, an insult for which the god killed him. According to later 
sources, Apollo had given him a bow and trained him in its use; if so, the bow 
Iphitus gave Odysseus comes from the hand of the archer god himself, to be used 
against the suitors on Apollo's feast day. See note 20.307. 

21.55 inserted the key and aiming straight and true, I shot back the bolts: The mecha- 
nism of Homeric doorlocks is so mysterious that Joyce's parody in Ulysses may be 
the best commentary on this passage: 

How did the centripetal remainer afford egress to the centrifugal departer? 

By inserting the barrel of an arruginated male key in the hole of an unstable 
female lock, obtaining a purchase on the bow of the key and turning its wards 
from right to left, withdrawing a bolt from its staple, pulling inward spasmodi- 
cally an obsolescent unhinged door and revealing an aperture for free egress 
and free ingress. 



516 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



21.331-40 Pirithous: A friend of Theseus and his companion on many of his 
exploits, he was king of the Lapiths, a tribe living in Thessaly, a country famous 
for its horses. He invited to his wedding with Hippodameia the Centaurs, who 
were later visualized as half man and half horse but whom Homer describes in 
the Iliad (1.312) as "wild brutes of the mountains." Their leader, Eurytion, got 
drunk at the feast and tried to rape the bride (whose name, incidentally, means 
"tamer of horses"). The resultant battle was a favorite theme for temple sculpture 
(it is featured, for example, on the west pediment of the temple of Zeus at 
Olympia); it symbolized the fight between civilized Greeks and savage barbarians. 

22.134-36 a side-door was fitted into the main wall: Commentators have puzzled 
over the architectural details of the palace in vain. The confusion is probably the 
result of a combination of different bardic formulas over time, which became the 
standard version. In any case, the original audience, swept along by the perfor- 
mance, would not have worried too much about the details. See Introduction, 
p. 21. 

22.241 your fine strategic stroke: Odysseus' stratagem of the Trojan Horse, which 
held the Achaean force that leveled Troy. See note 4.304-6. 

24.126 to urge Odysseus to sail: In a later epic poem, the Cypria, we are told that 
Odysseus, unwilling to leave his wife and baby son, feigned madness to escape 
the summons to the war against Troy. He drove his plow, harnessed to an ass 
and an ox, sowing salt in the furrows. Palamedes, the cleverest of the chiefs 
assembled for the expedition, put Odysseus' baby son in the path of the plow; 
Odysseus reined it in, his deceit exposed. "But once at the war," as Joyce 
reminded Frank Budgen, "the conscientious objector became ajusqu'auboutist." 

24.341-42 my father's Unsparing, son of old King Pain, I and my name's Man of 
Strife ...: See note 19.463-64. 



SUGGESTIONS FOR 
FURTHER READING 



I. Texts and Commentaries 

Homeri Opera. Ed. by T. W. Allen. 2d ed., Vols. Ill and IV. Oxford Classical Texts. 
London and New York, 1917. 

The Odyssey. Ed. with Introduction, Commentary and Indexes by W. B. Stanford. 
2d ed., 2 vols. London and New York, reprinted with alterations and addi- 
tions, 1967. 

A Commentary on Homer's Odyssey. Vol. I: Books I— VIII, A. Heubeck, S. West, 
J. B. Hainsworth. Vol. II: Books IX-XVI, A. Heubeck, A. Hoekstra. Vol. Ill: 
Books XVII-XXIV, J. Russo, M. Fernandez- Galiano, A. Heubeck. New York 
and Oxford, 1988-92. 

Homer, Odyssey: Books XIX and XX. Ed. R. B. Rutherford. Cambridge Greek and 
Latin Classics. Cambridge, England, 1992. 

Homer, Odyssey: Books VI-VIII. Ed. A. F. Garvie. Cambridge Greek and Latin Clas- 
sics. Cambridge, England, 1994. 

Homer, The Odyssey. Ed. with English translation by A. T. Murray, revised by 
George E. Dimock. 2 vols. The Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, Mass., and 
London, 1995. 

II. Critical Works 

Ahl, Frederick, and Hanna M. Roisman. The Odyssey Reformed. Ithaca, 1996. 
Arnold, Matthew. "On Translating Homer." In On the Classical Tradition, ed. R. H. 

Super. Ann Arbor and London, 1960. 
Auerbach, Erich. Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature. Trans. 

Willard Trask. Chapter 1, "Odysseus' Scar." Princeton, 1953. 
Austin, Norman. Archery at the Dark of the Moon: Poetic Problems in Homer's Odys- 
sey. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London, 1975. 
Beye, Charles R. The Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Epic Tradition. New York and 

London, 1966. 
Bloom, Harold, ed. Homer's Odyssey. New York, 1996. 
Bremer, J. M., I. J. F. de Jong, and J. Kalff, eds. Homer: Beyond Oral Poetry. Recent 

Trends in Homeric Interpretation. Amsterdam, 1987. 
Buitron, Diana, and Beth Cohen, eds. The Odyssey and Ancient Art: An Epic in Word 

and Image. The Edith C. Blum Art Institute, Bard College, Annandale-on- 

Hudson, New York, 1992. 
Camps, W. A. An Introduction to Homer. Oxford, 1980. 



517 



518 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



Carpenter, Rhys. Folk Tale, Fiction, and Saga in the Homeric Epics. Berkeley, 1946. 
Carter, Jane B., and Sarah P. Morris, eds. The Age of Homer: A Tribute to Emily 

Townsend Vermeule. Austin, 1995. 
Chadwick, John. The Mycenaean World. London and New York, 1976. 
Clarke, Howard. Homer 's Readers: A Historical Introduction to the Iliad and the Odyssey. 

Newark, Del., 1981. 
Clay, Jenny Strauss. The Wrath of Athena: Gods and Men in the Odyssey. Princeton, 

1983. 
Cohen, Beth, ed. The Distaff Side: Representing the Female in Homer's Odyssey. New 

York and London, 1995. 
Dawe, R. D. The Odyssey: Translation and Analysis. Sussex, 1993. 
Dimock, George E. The Unity of the Odyssey. Amherst, 1989. 
Edwards, Mark W. Homer: Poet of the Iliad. Baltimore and London, 1987. 
Fenik, Bernard. Studies in the Odyssey. Hermes Einzelschrift 30. Wiesbaden, 1974. 
Ferucci, Franco. The Poetics of Disguise: The Autobiography of the Work in Homer, 

Dante, and Shakespeare. Trans. A. Dunnigan. Ithaca, 1980. 
Finley, John H., Jr. Homer's Odyssey. Cambridge, Mass., and London, 1978. 
Finley, Sir Moses. The World of Odysseus. 2d rev. ed. Harmondsworth, 1979. 
Finnegan, Ruth. Oral Poetry: Its Nature, Significance, and Social Context. Cambridge, 

England, 1977. 
Ford, Andrew. Homer: The Poetry of the Past. Ithaca and London, 1992. 
Frame, Douglas. The Myth of Return in Early Greek Epic. New Haven, 1978. 
Greene, Thomas M. The Descent from Heaven: A Study in Epic Continuity. Chapter 4, 

"Form and Craft in the Odyssey." New Haven, 1963. 
Griffin, Jasper. Homer: The Odyssey. Landmarks of World Literature. Cambridge, 

England, and New York, 1987. 
Guthrie, W. K. C. The Greeks and Their Gods. London, 1949; repr. Boston, 1950. 
Hexter, Ralph. A Guide to the Odyssey: A Commentary on the English Translation of 

Robert Fitzgerald. New York, 1993. 
Jones, Peter V. Homer's Odyssey: A Companion to the Translation of Richmond Latti- 

more. Carbondale and Bristol, 1988. 
Katz, Marylin A. Penelope's Renown: Meaning and Indeterminacy in the Odyssey. 

Princeton, 1991. 
Kirk, G. S. The Songs of Homer. Cambridge, England, 1962. 
Lamberton, Robert. Homer the Theologian: Neoplatonist Allegorical Reading and the 

Growth of the Epic Tradition. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London, 1986. 
Lloyd-Jones, Sir Hugh. The Justice of Zeus. 2d ed. Sather Classical Lectures, Vol. 41. 

Berkeley, Los Angeles and London, 1971. 
Lord, Albert. The Singer of Tales. Cambridge, Mass., 1960. 
Martin, Richard. The Language of Heroes: Speech and Performance in the Iliad. Ithaca, 

1989. 
Moulton, Carroll. Similes in the Homeric Poems. Gottingen, 1977. 
Mueller, Martin, The Iliad. Unwin Critical Library, ed. Claude Rawson. London, 

1984. 



SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER READING 



519 



Murnaghan, Sheila. Disguise and Recognition in the Odyssey. Princeton, 1987. 
Myrsiades, Kostas, ed. Approaches to Teaching Homer's Iliad and Odyssey. New York, 

1987. 
Nagy, Gregory. The Best of the Achaeans: Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek Poetry. 

Baltimore and London, 1979. 
Olson, S. Douglas. Blood and Iron: Stories and Storytelling in Homer's Odyssey. Leiden, 

New York, Koln, 1995. 
Page, Denys. The Homeric Odyssey. Oxford, 1955. 

Parry, Adam M. The Language of Achilles and Other Papers. Oxford, 1989. 
Parry, Milman. The Making of Homeric Verse: The Collected Papers of Milman Parry. 

Ed. Adam Parry. Oxford, 1971. 
Peradotto, John. Man in the Middle Voice: Name and Narration in the Odyssey. Martin 

Classical Lectures, New Series, Vol. 1. Princeton, 1990. 
Pucci, Pietro. Odysseus Polutropos: Intertextual Readings in the Odyssey and the Iliad. 2d 

ed. Ithaca, 1995. 
Rubens, Beaty, and Oliver Taplin. An Odyssey Round Odysseus: The Man and His 

Story Traced Through Time and Place. London, 1989. 
Schein, Seth L., ed. Reading the Odyssey: Selected Interpretive Essays. Princeton, 1995. 
Segal, Charles. Singers, Heroes, and Gods in the Odyssey. Ithaca, 1994. 
Shive, David M. Naming Achilles. New York and Oxford, 1987. 
Stanford, W. B. The Ulysses Theme: A Study in the Adaptability of a Traditional Hero. 

Oxford, 1983. 
Steiner, George, and Robert Fagles, eds. Homer: A Collection of Critical Essays. Twen- 
tieth Century Views, ed. Maynard Mack. Englewood Cliffs, 1962. 
, ed., with Aminadov Dykman. Homer in English. Penguin Poets in 

Translation, ed. Christopher Ricks. Harmondsworth, 1996. 
Taylor, Charles H., Jr., ed. Essays on the Odyssey: Selected Modern Criticism. India- 
napolis, 1963. 
Tracy, Stephen V. The Story of the Odyssey. Princeton, 1990. 
Vermeule, Emily T. Greece in the Bronze Age. Chicago and London, 1964. 
Vivante, Paolo. Homer. Hermes Books, ed. John Herington. New Haven and 

London, 1985. 
Wender, Dorothea. The Last Scenes of the Odyssey. Mnemosyne Supplement 52. 

Leiden, 1978. 
Whitman, Cedric H. Homer and the Heroic Tradition. Chapter 12, "The Odyssey and 

Change." Cambridge, Mass., and London, 1958. 
Wood, Robert. An Essay on the Original Genius and Writings of Homer. London, 

1769; rep. Philadelphia, 1976. 
Woodhouse, W. J. The Composition of Homer's Odyssey. Oxford, 1930. 



PRONOUNCING 
GLOSSARY 



The main purpose of this glossary is to indicate pronunciation. Identifications are 
brief, and only the first appearance of a name is listed. 

Phonetic Equivalents: 

a as in cat o as in pot 

ay as in day oh as in bone 

aw as in raw oo as in boot 

ai as in air or as in bore 
ah as in father 

e as in pet s as in hiss 

ee as in feet th as in thin 

i as in bit u as in us 

eye as in bite ur as in burst 

Stress is indicated by an apostrophe after the stressed syllable (af'-ter). 

acastus (a-kas'-tus): king of Dulichion, 14.380. 

achaea (a-kee'-a): general, collective name for mainland Greece, 1.278. 

achaeans (a-kee'-unz): collective name for all Greek people, including the citi- 
zens of Ithaca, 1.106. 

Acheron {a'-ker-on): a river in the underworld, 10. 563. See note ad loc. 

Achilles {a-kil'-eez): son of Peleus and Thetis, grandson of Aeacus, and com- 
mander of the Myrmidons, Achaean allies, at Troy, 3.118. 

actoris {ak'-to-ris): maid of Penelope, 23.255. 

adreste (a-drees'-tee): maid of Helen, 4.138. 

aeacus (ee'-a-kus): son of Zeus, father of Peleus, grandfather of Achilles, 1 1.613. 

aeaea (ee-ee'-a): island home of Circe, 10.148. 

aeetes (ee-ee'-teez): brother of Circe, 10.151. 

521 



522 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



aegae (ee'-jee): Achaean city in the northern Peloponnese and sacred to 
Poseidon, 5.420. 

aegisthus (ee-jis'-thus): son of Thyestes, seducer of Clytemnestra and murderer 
of Agamemnon, killed by Orestes, 1.34. See note ad loc. 

aegyptius (ee-jip'-shus): Ithacan elder, father of Eurynomus, 2.15. 

aeolia (ee-oh'-li-a): island ruled by Aeolus, 10.1. 

aeolus (ee'-oh-lus): (1) master of the winds, 10.1. (2) Father of Cretheus, 
11.270. 

aeson (ee'-son): son of Tyro and Cretheus, father of Jason, 11.295. 

aethon (ee'-thon): name assumed by Odysseus, disguised as a beggar, 19.208. 

aetolia (ee-toh'-li-a): region in west-central Greece, 14.429. 

agamemnon (a-ga-mem'-non): king of Mycenae, son of Atreus, husband of 
Clytemnestra, murdered by her and Aegisthus; brother of Menelaus, supreme 
commander of all Achaea's armies and leader of the largest contingent at Troy, 
1.35. See note 1.34-55. 

agelaus (a-je-lay'-us): suitor, son of Damastor, killed by Odysseus, 20.358. 

ajax (ay'-jax): (1) Achaean, son of Telamon, Telamonian or Great Ajax, defeated 
by Odysseus in the contest for Achilles' armor, 3.121. See notes ad loc. and 1 1.625. 
(2) Achaean, son of Oileus, Oilean or Little Ajax, 4.560. See notes 1.375, 4.560-73. 

alcandre (al-kan'-dree): lady of Egyptian Thebes, wife of Polybus, 4.140. 

alcimus {al'-si-mus): father of Mentor, 22.245. 

alcinous (al-si'-no-us): king of the Phaeacians, husband of Arete, father of Nau- 
sicaa, 6.14. 

alcippe (al-si'-pee): maid of Helen, 4.139. 

alcmaeon (alk-mee'-on): son of Amphiaraus, 15.277. 

alcmena (alk-mee'-na): mother of Heracles by Zeus, 2.133. See note 11.690-718. 

alector (a-lek'-tor): Spartan, whose daughter married Megapenthes, 4.12. 

aloeus (a- lee '-us): husband of Iphimedeia, supposed father of Otus and 
Ephialtes, 11.348. 

alpheus (al-fee'-us): river in the western Peloponnese, 3.548. 

amnisus (am-ni'-sus): port city of Cnossos, on the northern coast of Crete, 19.215. 

amphiaraus (am-fi-a-ray'-us): prophet and king of Argos, son of Oicles, grand- 
father of Theoclymenus, and one of the Seven Against Thebes who fought and 
died there, 15.272. See note 11.369. 



PRONOUNCING GLOSSARY 



523 



amphilochus (am-fi'-lo-kus): son of Amphiaraus, 15.277. 

amphimedon (am-fi'-me-don): suitor killed by Telemachus; in the underworld 
his ghost reports the death of all the suitors to the ghost of Agamemnon, 22.254. 

amphinomus (am-fi'-no-mus): a suitor killed by Telemachus, and a favorite of 
Penelope, 16.388. 

amphion (am-feye'-on): (1) son of Zeus and Antiope; co-founder of Thebes (2) 
with his brother Zethus, 11.298. (2) King of Orchomenos, son of Iasus (1) and 
father of Chloris, 11.321. 

amphithea (am-fi' -the -a): wife of Autolycus, mother of Anticleia, grandmother 
of Odysseus, 19.472. 

amphitrite (am-fi-treye'-tee): queen of the sea, 3.101. 

Amphitryon (am-fi' -tri-ori): husband of Alcmena, supposed father of Heracles, 
11.302. 

amythaon (a-mi-thay'-on): son of Tyro and Cretheus, 1 1.295. 

anchialus (an-keye'-a-lus): father of Mentes, 1.208. 

andraemon (an-dree'-mon): father of Thoas, 14.565. 

anticleia (an-ti-kleye'-a): daughter of Autolycus, wife of Laertes, mother of 
Odysseus, 11.95. 

anticlus (an'-ti-klus): one of the Achaean soldiers in the Trojan horse, 4.320. 

antilochus (an-ti'-lo-kus): son of Nestor, brother of Pisistratus and Thrasy- 
medes; killed by Memnon at Troy, 3.125. See note 3.121-25. 

antinous (an-ti'-no-us): son of Eupithes, one of the two leading suitors, 1.440. 
See note 1.443. 

antiope (an-teye'-o-pee): daughter of Asopos, mother by Zeus of Amphion and 
Zethus, 11.296. 

antiphates (an-ti'-fa-teez): (1) king of the Laestrygonians, 10.117. (2) Son of 
Melampus, father of Oicles, 15.270. 

antiphus (an '-ti-fus): ( 1 ) son of Aegyptius, companion of Odysseus, killed by the 
Cyclops, 2.19. (2) Ithacan elder, 17.71. 

aphrodite (a-fro-deye' -tee): goddess of love, daughter of Zeus and wife of 
Hephaestus, 4.17. See note 8.361. 

apiraea (a-peye-ree'-a): home of Eurymedusa, servant of Nausicaa, 7.9. 

apollo (a-pol'-oh): son of Zeus and Leto, patron of the arts, especially music and 
poetry, and the god of archery — "lord of the silver bow" — whose arrows are a 



524 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



metaphor for the onset of a plague, and whose festival day in Ithaca is the day on 
which Odysseus kills the suitors, 3.317. See notes, passim. 

arcesius (ar-see'-si-us): son of Zeus, father of Laertes, grandfather of Odysseus, 
4.851. 

ares (ai'-reez): son of Zeus and Hera, god of war, lover of Aphrodite, 8.135. 

arete (a-ree'-tee): queen of Phaeacia, wife of Alcinous, mother of Nausicaa, 7.62. 
See note ad loc. 

arethusa (a-re-thoo'-sa): spring in Ithaca, 13.465. 

aretias (a-ree'-ti-as): grandfather of Amphinomus, 16.438. 

aretus (a-ree'-tus): son of Nestor, 3.463. 

argives (ar'-geyevz): alternate name for the Achaeans, 1.243. 

argo (ar'-goh): the ship of the Argonauts, 12.77 . See note 12.68. 

argos (ar'-gos): city or district in the northeastern Peloponnese, or the general 
region of the Achaeans, mainland Greece, 1.397. 

argos (ar'-gos): dog of Odysseus, 17.319. 

ariadne (a-ri-ad'-nee): daughter of Minos, killed by Artemis, 11.364. See note 
ad loc. 

arnaeus (ar-nee'-us): true name of the beggar Irus, 18.6. 

artacia (ar-tay'-sha): a spring on the island of the Laestrygonians, 10.118. 

artemis (ar'-te-mis): daughter of Zeus and Leto, sister of Apollo, goddess of 
childbirth and hunting, 4.136. See note 5.299-302. 

arybas (a'-ri-bas): a lord of Sidon, father of Eumaeus' nurse, 15.478. 

asopus (a-soh'-pus): river in Boeotia; as a river god, the father of Antiope, 11.296. 

asphalion (as-fa'-li-on): attendant of Menelaus, 4.240. 

asteris (as'-ter-is): small island south of Ithaca, 4.951. 

athena (a-thee'-na): or Pallas Athena, goddess, daughter of Zeus, defender of the 
Achaeans. A patron of human ingenuity and resourcefulness, whether exempli- 
fied by handicrafts, such as spinning and weaving, or by skill in human relations, 
such as that possessed by Odysseus, her favorite among the Greeks, 1.53. See 
notes, passim. 

Athens (a'-thenz): the great city of Erechtheus and Athena, located in Attica, in 
east-central Greece, 3.316. 

atlas (at'-las): Titan who upholds the pillars separating the earth and sky; father 
of Calypso, 1.62. See note ad loc. 



PRONOUNCING GLOSSARY 525 

atreus (ay'-tryoos): father of Agamemnon and Menelaus, 4.172. 

atrides (a-treye'-deez): "son of Atreus," patronymic of Agamemnon or Mene- 
laus, 1.42. 

autolycus (aw-to'-li-kus): "the wolf himself," father of Anticleia, maternal 
grandfather of Odysseus, 11.95. 

autonoe (aw-to'-no-ee): maid of Penelope, 18.207. 



boethous (boh-ee'-tho-us): father of Eteoneus, 4.36. 



cadmus (kad'-mus): founder of Thebes, father of Ino Leucothea, 5.366. 

calypso (ka-lip'-soh): goddess-nymph, daughter of Atlas, who makes her home 
on the island of Ogygia, 1.16. 

cassandra (ka-san'-dra): daughter of Priam, lover of Agamemnon, and mur- 
dered with him by Aegisthus and Clytemnestra, 11.476. See note 1.375. 

castor (kas'-tor): (1) son of Zeus and Leda, brother of Helen and Polydeuces, 
1 1.343. See note ad loc. (2) Son of Hylax, fictitious father of Odysseus, 14.234. 

cauconians (kaw-koh '-ni-unz): a tribe southwest of Pylos, 3.408. 

centaurs (sen'-tawrz): wild creatures, part man and part horse, who live in the 
vicinity of Mount Pelion, 21.340. See note ad loc. 

cephallenians (se-fa-lee' -ni-unz): 20.231, general name for the subjects of 
Odysseus as well as for the people of cephallenia (se-fa-lee '-ni-a), an island off 
the coast of Greece, to the west of Ithaca, in the kingdom of Odysseus, 20.231. 

ceteans (se-tee'-unz): the people led by Eurypylus, 11.592. 

chalcis (kal'-sis): a stream south of the mouth of the Alpheus, off the western 
coast of the Peloponnese, 15.328. 

charybdis (ka-rib'-dis): monster in the form of a giant whirlpool, located across 
fromScylla, 12.115. 

chios (kee'-os): large Aegean island off the coast of Asia Minor, 3.189. 

chloris (kloh'-ris): wife of Neleus, mother of Nestor, 11.318. 

chromius (kro'-mi-us): son of Neleus and Chloris, brother of Nestor, 1 1.324. 

cicones (si-koh'-neez): Trojan allies, living in Thrace, to the north of Troy, 9.45. 

Cimmerians (si-mer'-i-unz): people living near the kingdom of the dead, 11.16. 



524 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



metaphor for the onset of a plague, and whose festival day in Ithaca is the day on 
which Odysseus kills the suitors, 3.317. See notes, passim. 

arcesius (ar-see'-si-us): son of Zeus, father of Laertes, grandfather of Odysseus, 
4.851. 

ares (ai'-reez): son of Zeus and Hera, god of war, lover of Aphrodite, 8.135. 

arete (a-ree'-tee): queen of Phaeacia, wife of Alcinous, mother of Nausicaa, 7.62. 
See note ad loc. 

arethusa (a-re-thoo'-sa): spring in Ithaca, 13.465. 

aretias (a-ree'-ti-as): grandfather of Amphinomus, 16.438. 

aretus (a-ree'-tus): son of Nestor, 3.463. 

argives (ar'-geyevz): alternate name for the Achaeans, 1.243. 

argo (ar'-goh): the ship of the Argonauts, 12.77. See note 12.68. 

argos (ar'-gos): city or district in the northeastern Peloponnese, or the general 
region of the Achaeans, mainland Greece, 1.397. 

argos (ar'-gos): dog of Odysseus, 17.319. 

ariadne (a-ri-ad'-nee): daughter of Minos, killed by Artemis, 11.364. See note 
ad loc. 

arnaeus (ar-nee'-us): true name of the beggar Irus, 18.6. 

artacia (ar-tay'-sha): a spring on the island of the Laestrygonians, 10.1 18. 

artemis (ar'-te-mis): daughter of Zeus and Leto, sister of Apollo, goddess of 
childbirth and hunting, 4.136. See note 5.299-302. 

arybas (a'-ri-bas): a lord of Sidon, father of Eumaeus' nurse, 15.478. 

asopus (a-soh'-pus): river in Boeotia; as a river god, the father of Antiope, 1 1.296. 

asphalion (as-fa'-li-on): attendant of Menelaus, 4.240. 

asteris (as'-ter-is): small island south of Ithaca, 4.951. 

athena (a-thee'-na): or Pallas Athena, goddess, daughter of Zeus, defender of the 
Achaeans. A patron of human ingenuity and resourcefulness, whether exempli- 
fied by handicrafts, such as spinning and weaving, or by skill in human relations, 
such as that possessed by Odysseus, her favorite among the Greeks, 1.53. See 
notes, passim. 

Athens (a'-thenz): the great city of Erechtheus and Athena, located in Attica, in 
east-central Greece, 3.316. 

atlas (at' -las): Titan who upholds the pillars separating the earth and sky; father 
of Calypso, 1.62. See note ad loc. 



PRONOUNCING GLOSSARY 525 

atreus (ay'-tryoos): father of Agamemnon and Menelaus, 4.172. 

atrides (a-treye'-deez): "son of Atreus," patronymic of Agamemnon or Mene- 
laus, 1.42. 

autolycus (aw-to'-li-kus): "the wolf himself," father of Anticleia, maternal 
grandfather of Odysseus, 1 1.95. 

autonoe (aw-to'-no-ee): maid of Penelope, 18.207. 
boethous (boh-ee'-tho-us): father of Eteoneus, 4.36. 



cadmus (kad'-mus): founder of Thebes, father of Ino Leucothea, 5.366. 

calypso (ka-lip'-soh): goddess-nymph, daughter of Atlas, who makes her home 
on the island of Ogygia, 1.16. 

cassandra (ka-san'-dra): daughter of Priam, lover of Agamemnon, and mur- 
dered with him by Aegisthus and Clytemnestra, 11.476. See note 1.375. 

castor (kas'-tor): (1) son of Zeus and Leda, brother of Helen and Polydeuces, 
11.343. See note ad loc. (2) Son of Hylax, fictitious father of Odysseus, 14.234. 

cauconians (kaw-koh' -ni-unz): a tribe southwest of Pylos, 3.408. 

centaurs (sen'-tawrz): wild creatures, part man and part horse, who live in the 
vicinity of Mount Pelion, 21.340. See note ad loc. 

cephallenians (se-fa-lee' -ni-unz): 20.231, general name for the subjects of 
Odysseus as well as for the people of cephallenia (se-fa-lee '-ni-a), an island off 
the coast of Greece, to the west of Ithaca, in the kingdom of Odysseus, 20.231. 

ceteans (se-tee'-unz): the people led by Eurypylus, 11.592. 

chalcis (kal'-sis): a stream south of the mouth of the Alpheus, off the western 
coast of the Peloponnese, 15.328. 

charybdis (ka-rib'-dis): monster in the form of a giant whirlpool, located across 
fromScylla, 12.115. 

chios (kee'-os): large Aegean island off the coast of Asia Minor, 3.189. 

chloris (kloh'-ris): wife of Neleus, mother of Nestor, 11.318. 

chromius (kro'-mi-us): son of Neleus and Chloris, brother of Nestor, 1 1.324. 

cicones (si-koh'-neez): Trojan allies, living in Thrace, to the north of Troy, 9.45. 

Cimmerians (si-mer'-i-unz): people living near the kingdom of the dead, 11.16. 



526 homer: the odyssey 

circe (sir' -see): goddess and enchantress of Aeaea, who changes men to swine, 
8.501. See note 11.154. 

clashing rocks: legendary and lethal rocks or cliffs, near Scylla and Charybdis, 
which menace sailors, 12.68. See note ad loc. 

clitus (kleye'-tus): son of Mantius, abducted by the Dawn, 15.278. 

clymene (kli'-men-ee): heroine seen by Odysseus in the underworld, 1 1.369. 

clymenus (kli'-men-us): father of Eurydice, 3.508. 

clytemnestra (kleye-tem-nes'-tra): daughter of Leda and Tyndareus, queen of 
Argos, wife of Agamemnon, lover of Aegisthus, and mother of Orestes, 3.303. 
See note 1.34-55. 

clytius (kli'-ti-us): father of Piraeus, 15.603. 

clytoneus (kli-to-nee'-us): son of Alcinous and Arete, 8.139. 

cnossos (knos'-os): principal city of Crete, 19.202. 

creon (kree'-on): king of Thebes, father of Megara, 1 1.305. 

Cretans (kree'-tunz): 14.266, people of crete (kreet), the large island south of 
the Peloponnese in the Aegean, the kingdom of Idomeneus, 1 1.366. 

cretheus (kree'-thyoos): son of Aeolus (2), husband of Tyro, 11.270. 

cronus (kro'-nus): god, son of Uranus, father of Zeus, Hades, Poseidon, Hera, 
Demeter, 1.54. 

ctesippus (ktee-si'-pus): suitor killed by Philoetius, 20.321. 

ctesius (ktee'-si-us): father of Eumaeus, 15.464. 

ctimene ( kti ' -me-nee): younger sister of Odysseus, 15.406. 

cyclops (seye'-klops): a cannibal clan of one-eyed giants; also a name for 
Polyphemus in particular, 1.82. See note 9.410. 

cydonians (si-doh'-ni-unz): a people of Crete, 3.330. 

cyllene (seye-lee'-nee): a mountain in northern Arcadia, the site of Hermes' birth 
and sacred to the god, 24.1. 

Cyprus (seye'-prus): large island in the eastern Mediterranean, 4.93. 

cythera (si-thee'-ra): island off the southeastern coast of the Peloponnese, 9.92. 



damastor (da-mas' -tor): father of Agelaus, 20.358. 

danaans (da'-nay-unz): alternative name for the Achaeans, 24.49. 



PRONOUNCING GLOSSARY 



527 



dawn: goddess of the morning, wife of Tithonus, 2.1. 

death: Hades, god of the dead, son of Cronus and Rhea, brother of Zeus, 
Demeter and Poseidon, 3.269. 

deiphobus (dee-i'-fo-bus): son of Priam; commander in chief of the Trojans after 
Hector's death; consort of Helen after the death of Paris, 4.309. 

delos (dee'-los): Aegean island in the Cyclades, sacred to Apollo, 6.178. 

demeter (dee-mee'-tur): goddess of the grain crops, sister of Zeus and mother of 
Persephone, 5.138. See note 11.669-80. 

demodocus (dee-mo '-do-kus): blind singer of the Phaeacians, 8.51. 
demoptolemus (dee-mop-to'-le-mus): suitor killed by Odysseus, 22.254. 

deucalion (dew-kay'-li-on): king of Crete, son of Minos, father of Idomeneus, 

19.205. 

dia (deye'-ah): a small island off the northern shore of Crete, 1 1.368. 

diocles (deye'-o-kleez): son of Ortilochus, king of Phera, 3.547. 

diomedes (deye-o-mee'-deez): son of Tydeus, king of Argos, 3.186. 

dionysus (deye-o-neye'-sus): son of Zeus and Semele, the god of ecstatic release, 

especially associated with wine, 1 1.368. 

dmetor (dmee'-tor): son of Iasus (2), king of Cyprus, 17.488. 

dodona (doh-doh'-na): site in Thesprotia, in northwestern Greece; the sanctuary 

of an oracle of Zeus, whose prophecies were communicated through the rustling 

of the leaves of a great oak, 14.370. 

dolius (do'-li-us): an old manservant, attached to Penelope, father of Melanthius 

and Melantho, 4.828. 

dorians (doh'-ri-unz): a people identified as Cretans by Odysseus, 19.201. 

dulichion (dew-li'-ki-on): island near Ithaca, off the western coast of Greece, 1.286. 

dymas (deye'-mas): Phaeacian noble, 6.25. 



earth: mother of Tityus, 7.372. 

echeneus (e-ke-nee'-us): Phaeacian elder, 7.185. 

echephron (e-ke'-fron): son of Nestor, 3.462. 

echetus (e'-ke-tus): brutal king, perhaps in western Greece, 18.98. 

egypt: the country in Africa, 3.340. 

eidothea (eye-do' -the-a): sea-nymph, daughter of Proteus, 4.408. 



528 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



elatus (e'-la-tus): suitor killed by Eumaeus, 22.280. 

elis (ee'-lis): realm of the Epeans, in the northwestern Peloponnese, bordering 
Nestor's Pylos, 4.714. 

elpenor {el-pee '-nor): companion of Odysseus, 10.608. 

elysian fields (ee-li'-zhun): distant home of the fortunate after death, 4.635. 

enipeus (e-neye'-pyoos): river in Thessaly, 11.271. 

epeans (e-pee'-unz): people of Elis and Buprasion, in the northwestern Pelopon- 
nese, 13.311. 

epeus (e-pee'-us): builder of the Trojan horse, 8.553. 

ephialtes (e-fi-al'-teez): giant, son of Iphimedeia and Poseidon, brother of Otus, 
killed by Apollo, 1 1.351. See note ad loc. 

ephyra (e'-fi-ra): city in Thesprotia, in northwestern Greece, 1.302. 

epicaste (e-pi-kas'-tee): Jocasta, wife and mother of Oedipus, 11.307. See note 
ad loc. 

erebus (e'-re-bus): the underworld, 10.582. 

erechtheus (e-rek'-thyoos): first king of Athens, reared by Athena, 7.93. 

erembians (e-rem'-bi-unz): people visited by Menelaus, 4.94. 

eriphyle (e-ri-feye'-lee): wife of Amphiaraus, 1 1.369. See note ad loc. 

erymanthus (e-ri-man' -thus): mountain in the northwest Peloponnese, 6.114. 

eteoneus (ee-tee-ohn'-yoos): attendant of Menelaus, 4.26. 

Ethiopians (ee-thee-oh'-pi-unz): 1.25, people of Ethiopia (ee-thee-oh'-pi-a), a far- 
off country to the east and a favorite haunt of Poseidon, 5.310. 

euanthes (yoo-an'-theez): father of Maron, 9.220. 

euboea (yoo-bee'-a): large island lying off the coast of eastern Greece, 3.194. 

euenor (yoo-ee'-nor): father of Leocritus, 2.272. 

eumaeus (yoo-mee'-us): swineherd of Odysseus, 14.63. See note ad loc. 

eumelus (yoo-mee'-lus): husband of Iphthime, brother-in-law of Penelope, 4.897. 

eupithes (yoo-peye'-theez): father of Antinous, killed by Laertes, 1.440. 

euryades (yoo-reye'-a-deez): suitor killed by Telemachus, 22.280. 

eurybates (yoo-ri'-ba-teez): herald of Odysseus, 19.283. 

eurycleia {yoo-ri-kleye '-a): the old nurse of Odysseus and Telemachus, atten- 
dant of Penelope, 1.489. 



PRONOUNCING GLOSSARY 529 

eurydamas (yoo-ri'-da-mas): suitor killed by Odysseus, 18.333. 

eurydice (yoo-rV-di-see): daughter of Clymenus, wife of Nestor, 3.508. 

eurylochus (yoo-ri'-lo-kus): kin of Odysseus, and his second in command, 

10.224. 

eurymachus (yoo-ri'-ma-kus): one of the two leading suitors, son of Polybus, 

and killed by Odysseus, 1.457. 

eurymedon (yoo-ri'-me-don): king of the Giants, father of Periboea, 7.67. 

eurymedusa {yoo-ri-me-doo 'sa) : nurse and servant of Nausicaa, 7.9. 

eurymus (yoo'-ri-mus): father of Telemus, prophet of the Cyclops, 9.567. 

eurynome (yoo-ri'-no-mee): housekeeper of Penelope, 17.548. 

eurynomus (yoo-ri'-no-mus): suitor, son of Aegyptius, 2.22. 

eurypylus (yoo-ri'-pi-lus): son of Telephus, leader of the Ceteans, 1 1.591. 

eurytion (yoo-ri'-ti-on): drunken Centaur, 21.330. 

eurytus (yoo'-ri-tus): king of Oechalia, archer killed by Apollo, 8.255. 

furies: avenging spirits whose task it is to exact blood for blood when no human 
avenger is left alive. They are particularly concerned with injuries done by one 
member of a family to another; and they have regulatory powers as well, as 
when they punish Oedipus for marrying his mother and driving her to suicide; 
2.152, see 11.317. 

geraestus (je-ree'-stus): promontory on the island of Euboea, 3.198. 

gorgon (gor'-gon): fabulous female monster whose glance could turn a person 

into stone, 11.726. See note 3.46. 

gortyn {gor'-tin): city in Crete, 3.332. 

graces: attendant goddesses, daughters of Zeus who personify beauty and 

charm, often associated with the arts and the Muses, 6.21. 

great bear: constellation, also called the Wagon and the Big Dipper, 5.300. See 

note 5.299-302. 

gyrae (jeye'-ree): rocky headland somewhere in the Aegean Sea, 4.561. 



halitherses (ha-li-thur'-seez): Ithacan elder with prophetic powers, 2.175. 
halius (ha'-li-us): Phaeacian, son of Alcinous and Arete, 8.139. 



530 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



hebe (hee'-bee): goddess of youth, daughter of Zeus and Hera, servant of the 
gods, 11.693. 

helen (he'-len): daughter of Zeus and Leda, wife of Menelaus, consort of Paris; 
her abduction by him from Sparta caused the Trojan War, 4.14. See notes 4.106, 
4.632-41. 

helios (hee'-li-os): the Sun, 8.307. See note 12.285. 

hellas (hel'-as): the district ruled by Achilles, later called Thessaly, as well as a 
name for Greece in general, 1.396. 

Hellespont (hel'-es-pont): strait between the Troad and Thrace (the Dar- 
danelles), 24.89. 

Hephaestus (he-fees' -tus): god of fire, the great artificer, son of Hera, husband of 
Aphrodite, 4.694. See notes 8.302-410, 8.321-22. 

hera (hee'-ra): goddess, daughter of Cronus and Rhea, wife and sister of Zeus, 
4.575. See notes 5.161, 11.690-718. 

heracles (her'-a-kleez): son of Zeus and Alcmena; the hero of the Labors, who 
after death divides his time between the underworld and Olympus, 8.255. See 
notes 3.215, 11.690-718. 

hermes (hur'-meez): god, son of Zeus and Maia, messenger of the gods, giant- 
killer, and guide of dead souls to the underworld, 1.46. See notes 5.161, 14.494. 

hermione (hur-meye'-o-nee): daughter of Menelaus and Helen, 4.16. 

hippodamia (hi-po-da-meye'-a): maid of Penelope, 18.207. 

hippotas (hip'-o-tas): father of Aeolus, 10.2. 

hunter: constellation (otherwise called Orion), 5.301. See note 5.299-302. 

hylax (heye' -lax): fictitious father of Castor (2), 14.234. 

hyperesia (hi-pe-ree'-si-a): city in Achaea, home of Polyphides, 15.284. 

hyperia (hi-pe-reye'-a): former land of the Phaeacians, near to the Cyclops, 6.6. 

Hyperion (heye-pee'-ri-on): alternative name of the sungod, Helios, 12.285. See 
note ad Ioc. 



iardanus (i-ar'-da-nus): river in Crete, 3.331. 

iasion (eye-a'-si-on): son of Zeus and Electra, loved by Demeter, 5.139. See note 
5.134-40. 

iasus (eye'-a-sus): (1) father of Amphion (2), 11.321. (2) Father of Dmetor, 
17.488. 



PRONOUNCING GLOSSARY 



531 



icarius (eye-ka'-ri-us): father of Penelope and brother of Tyndareus, 1.379. 

icmalius (ik-ma'-li-us): Ithacan craftsman who made Penelope's chair, 19.60. 

idomeneus (eye-do' -men-yoos): Achaean, son of Deucalion, commander of the 
Cretan contingent at Troy, 3.216. See note 3.213-14. 

ilium (il'-i-um): Troy, the city of Ilus, 9.44. 

ilus (eye'-lus): lord of Ephyra, son of Mermerus, 1.302. 

ino (eye'-noh): (Leucothea), daughter of Cadmus, once a mortal and now a sea- 
nymph, 5.367. See note ad loc. 

iolcos (i-ol'-kos): city in Thessaly, home of Pelias, where Jason sought the 
golden fleece, 1 1.292. 

iphiclus (eye'-fi-klus): king of Phylace, 11.329. 

iphimedeia (eye-fi-me-deye'-a): wife of Aloeus, mother of Otus and Ephialtes by 
Poseidon, 11.348. 

iphitus (eye'-fi-tus): son of Eurytus, killed by Heracles, 21.16. 

iphthime (if-theye'-mee): wife of Eumelus, sister of Penelope, 4.895. 

irus (eye'-rus): nickname of Ithacan beggar whose true name is Arnaeus, 18.8. 
See note 18.6-9. 

ismarus (iz'-ma-rus): Thracian city, home of the Cicones, 9.44. 

ithacans (ith'-a-kunz): 23.404, people of ithaca (ith'-a-ka), home of Odysseus, 
Ionian island off the western coast of Greece, 1.21. 

ithacus (ith'-a-kus): builder of a well on Ithaca, 17.225. 

itylus (it'-i-lus): son of Zethus and Pandareus' daughter, who was transformed 
into a nightingale, 19.589. See note 19.585-90. 

jagged islands: a cluster of islands between Elis and Ithaca, 15.332. 

jason (jay'-son): leader of the Argonauts and captain of the ship Argo, 12.80. See 
notes 11.268, 12.68. 



lacedaemon (la-se-dee'-mon): city and kingdom of Menelaus, in the southern 
Peloponnese, 3.367. 

laerces (lay-er'-seez): goldsmith in Pylos, 3.475. 

laertes (lay-er'-teez): son of Arcesius, husband of Anticleia, father of Odysseus, 
1.219. 



532 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



laestrygonians (ke-stri-goh'-ni-unz): legendary clan of giant cannibals, 10.1 17. 

lampetie (lam-pe'-ti-ee): nymph, daughter of Helios and Neaera, 12.142. 

lamus (lam'-us): either the founding king of the Laestrygonians or their major 
city, 10.90. 

laodamas (lay-o' -da-mas): Phaeacian, son of Alcinous and Arete, 7.202. 

lapiths (la' -piths): Thessalian tribe, led by Pirithous, 21.332. See note 21.331-40. 

led a (lee' -da): wife of Tyndareus and mother of Clytemnestra; mother by Zeus of 
Castor, Helen and Polydeuces, 11.341. See note 11.343. 

lemnos (lem'-nos): island in the northeastern Aegean, 8.321. See note ad loc. 

leocritus (lee-o'-kri-tus): suitor killed by Telemachus, 2.272. 

leodes (lee-oh'-deez): suitor with prophetic gifts, killed by Odysseus, 21.163. 

lesbos (lez'-bos): island and city off the coast of Asia Minor, south of Troy, 3.188. 

leto (lee'-toh): goddess, mother of Apollo and Artemis by Zeus, 6.1 18. 

leucothea (lew-ko'-the-a): Ino's name after she became a divinity, 5.368. 

libya: the country in Africa as well as a general name for the continent itself, 
4.94. 

lotus-eaters: legendary people visited by Odysseus, they live on a plant 
whose fruit induces stupor and forgetfulness of home, 9.95. 



maera (mee'-ra): heroine seen by Odysseus in the underworld, 1 1.369. 

maia (may'-a): mother of Hermes, 14.494. 

malea (ma-lee'-a): stormy southeastern cape of the Peloponnese, 3.325. 

mantius (man'-shus): prophet, son of Melampus, grandfather of Theoclymenus, 
15.270. 

marathon (ma'-ra-thon): village in Attica near Athens, 7.92. 

maron (mah'-ron): son of Euanthes, priest of Apollo at Ismarus, 9.219. 

mastor (mas'-tor): father of Halitherses, 2.176. 

medon (mee'-don): herald of Odysseus in Ithaca, 4.762. 

megapenthes (me-ga-pen' '-theez): son of Menelaus by a slave woman, 4.13. 

megara (me'-ga-ra): daughter of Creon, wife of Heracles, 1 1.305. 

melampus (me-lam'-pus): famous seer, 15.250. See note ad loc. 



PRONOUNCING GLOSSARY 



533 



melaneus (me'-lan-yoos): father of Amphimedon, 24.1 1 1. 

melanthius (me-lan'-thi-us): son of Dolius, goatherd, 17.231. 

melantho (me-lan'-thoh): daughter of Dolius, maid of Penelope, 18.363. 

memnon (mem'-non): son of Tithonus and Dawn, 1 1.595. See note 3.121-25. 

menelaus (me-ne-lay'-us): son of Atreus, king of Lacedaemon, brother of 
Agamemnon, husband of Helen, 1.328. See notes, passim. 

menoetius (me-nee'-shus): father of Patroclus, 24.84. 

mentes (men'-teez): son of Anchialus, king of the Taphians, name assumed by 
Athena in Ithaca, 1.123. 

mentor (men' -tor): son of Alcimus, Ithacan friend of Odysseus, often imperson- 
ated by Athena, 2.250. See notes 4.304-6, 4.738. 

mermerus (mur'-me-rus): father of Ilus, 1.302. 

mesaulius (me-saw'-li-us): servant of Eumaeus, 14.511. 

messenians (me-see'-ni-unz): 21.20, people of messene (me-see'-nee), a city in 
Lacedaemon, 21.17. 

mimas (meye '-mas): craggy promontory of Asia Minor opposite the island of 
Chios, 3.191. 

minos (meye' -nos): son of Zeus and Europa, king of Crete, father of Deucalion, 
11.365. See note 19.203-5. 

minyans (min'-yunz): people of Orchomenos in east-central Greece, 11.322. 

mulius (moo '-li-us) : Dulichian herald of Amphinomus, 18.477. 

muse: goddess, daughter of Zeus, one of the nine, all told, who preside over lit- 
erature and the arts and are the sources of artistic inspiration, 1.1. 

mycenae (meye-see'-nee): (1) legendary heroine from whom the Argive city took 
its name, 2.133. (2) City in the Argolid, Agamemnon's capital, just to the north 
of the city of Argos, 3.344. 

myrmidons (mur'-mi-donz): people of Phthia, in southern Thessaly, ruled by 
King Peleus and commanded at Troy by Achilles, 3.212. 



naiads (neye'-adz): water-nymphs, 13.117. 

nausicaa (naw-si'-kay-a): daughter of Alcinous and Arete, 6.20. 

nausithous (naw-si' -tho-us): son of Poseidon, father of Alcinous and Rhexenor, 
founder of the Phaeacian settlement on Scheria, 6.8. 



534 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



neaera (ne-ee'-ra): wife of Helios, mother of Lampetie and Phaethousa, 12.143. 

nion (neye'-on): alternative name of Mount Neriton, on Ithaca, 1.215. 

neleus (neel'-yoos): son of Poseidon and Tyro, father of Nestor, former king of 
Pylos, 3.4. 

neoptolemus (nee-op-to'-le-mus): son of Achilles; married to Hermione, daugh- 
ter of Helen and Menelaus, 11.576. See note 3.213-14. 

nericus (nee'-ri-cus): town on the western coast of Greece, captured by Laertes, 
24.419. 

neriton (nee'-ri-ton): mountain on Ithaca, 9.24. 

neritus (nee'-ri-tus): builder of a well on Ithaca, 17.225. 

nestor {nes'-tor): son of Neleus, king of the Pylians, father of Antilochus, Pisis- 
tratus, Thrasymedes and others; the oldest of the Achaean chieftains, 3.19. 

nile: the famous river of Egypt, 4.536. 

nisus (neye'-sus): king of Dulichion, father of Amphinomus, 16.438. 

noemon (no-ee'-mon): Ithacan, son of Phronius, 2.426. 



ocean: the great river that surrounds the world and the god who rules its 
waters, 4.638. 

odysseus (o-dis'-yoos): grandson of Arcesius and Autolycus, son of Laertes and 
Anticleia, husband of Penelope, father of Telemachus, king of Ithaca and the sur- 
rounding islands, 1.24. See notes, passim. 

oechalia (ee-kay'-li-a): Thessalian city of Eurytus, 8.255. 

oedipus (ee'-di-pus): son of Laius and Jocasta (Epicaste), her husband as well, 
and king of Thebes (2), 11.307. See note ad loc. 

oenops (ee'-nops): Ithacan, father of Leodes, 21.163. 

ogygia (oh-ji'-ja): island in the center of the sea and home of Calypso, 1.101. 

oicxes (oh-i'-kleez): father of Amphiaraus, 15.271. 

olympus (o-lim'-pus): mountain in northeastern Thessaly, the home of the gods, 
1.119. 

onetor (o -nee '-tor): father of Phrontis, 3.320. 

ops (ops): son of Pisenor, father of Eurycleia, 1.489. 

orchomenos (or-ko'-men-os): city of the Minyans, in east-central Greece, bor- 
dering on Boeotia, 1 1.322. 



PRONOUNCING GLOSSARY 



535 



orestes (o-res'-teez): son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, and the avenger of 
his father, 1.35. See notes 1.34-55, 3.346-47, 4.165. 

orion (o-reye'-on): mythical hunter, loved by the Dawn, murdered by Artemis; 
and the constellation in his name, 5.134. See note 5.299-302. 

ormenus (or'-men-us): father of Ctesius, grandfather of Eumaeus, 15.464. 

orsilochus (or-si'-lo-kus): son of Idomeneus, 13.295. 

ortilochus (or-ti'-lo-kus): father of Diodes, 3.548. 

ortygia (or-ti'-ja): legendary place where Artemis killed Orion, an island some- 
times identified as Delos, 15.454. 

ossa (os'-a): mountain in Thessaly, 11.358. 

otus (oh'-tus): giant, son of Iphimedeia and Poseidon, brother of Ephialtes, killed 
by Apollo, 11.351. See note ad loc. 



pallas {pal '-as): epithet of Athena, 1.147. 

pandareus (pan-dar'-yoos): father of the nightingale, whose daughters were 
snatched away by the whirlwinds, 19.585. See note ad loc. 

panopeus (pan'-op-yoos): city in Phocis, 11.668. 

paphos (pa'-fos): city in Cyprus and a favorite haunt of Aphrodite, 8.405. 

parnassus (par-nas'-us): great mountain in central Greece, on the north side of 
the Gulf of Corinth; the oracle of Delphi was situated on its southern slope, 
19.447. 

patroclus (pa-tro'-klus): son of Menoetius, brother-in-arms of Achilles, killed 
by Hector at Troy, 3.123. See note 3.121-25. 

pelasgians (pe-laz'-junz): Trojan allies, a tribe located in Asia Minor, 19.201. 

peleus (peel'-yoos): father by Thetis of Achilles, 8.89. 

pelias (pe'-li-as): son of Poseidon and Tyro, king of Iolcus, 1 1.290. 

pelion (pee'-li-on): mountain in Thessaly, home of the Centaurs, 1 1.359. 

penelope (pe-ne'-lo-pee): daughter of Icarius, wife of Odysseus, mother of 
Telemachus, queen of Ithaca, 1.259. See notes, passim. 

periboea (pe-ri-bee'-a): daughter of Eurymedon, mother by Poseidon of Nausi- 
thous, 7.66. 

periclymenus (per-ri-kli'-men-us): son of Neleus and Chloris, brother of Nestor, 
11.324. 



536 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



perimedes (per-ri-mee'-deez): companion of Odysseus, 11.26. 

pero (pee'-roh): daughter of Neleus and Chloris, 11.325. 

perse (pur'-see): nymph, daughter of Ocean, wife of Helios, mother of Aeetes 
and Circe, 10.153. 

Persephone (pur-se'-fo-nee): goddess of the underworld, daughter of Demeter, 
and wife of Hades, 10.540. 

perseus (purs' -yoos): son of Nestor, 3.462. 

phaeacians (fee-ay '-shunz): 5.39, people of Alcinous and Arete, inhabitants of 
phaeacia (fee-ay 'sha), a kingdom whose alternative name is Scheria, 5.317. 

phaedimus (fee'-di-mus): king of the Sidonians, friend of Menelaus, 4.695. 

phaedra (fee'-dra): wife of Theseus, heroine seen by Odysseus in the under- 
world, 11.364. 

pheae (fe'-ee): town in Elis, 15.330. 

phaestos (fees' -tos): city in Crete, 3.334. 

phaethusa (fay-e-thoo '-sa): nymph, daughter of Helios and Neaera, 12.142. 

pharos (fa'-ros): island off the mouth of the Nile where Menelaus subdued Pro- 
teus, 4.396. 

phemius (fee' -mi-us): son of Terpias, Ithacan bard, 1.178. 

phera (fee'-ra): town between Pylos and Sparta, the home of Diodes, 3.547. 

pherae (fee'-ree): town in Thessaly, the home of Eumelus, 4.897. 

pheres (fe'-reez): son of Cretheus and Tyro, 1 1.295. 

phidon (f eye' -don): king of Thesprotia, 14.357. 

philoctetes (fi-lok-tee'-teez): son of Poias, the great archer of the Trojan War, 
commander of the Thessalians, marooned on Lemnos suffering from an infected 
snakebite, 3.215. See note ad loc. 

philoetius (fi-lee'-shus): cowherd loyal to Odysseus, 20.203. 

philomelides (fi-lo-me-leye'-deez): wrestler in Lesbos, thrown by Odysseus, 
4.382. 

phoebus (fee'-bus): epithet of Apollo, 3.317. 

Phoenicians (fee-ni' -shunz): 13.308, people of Phoenicia (fee-ni'-sha), a 
country on the coast of Syria, 4.93. 

phorcys (for'-seez): an old god of the sea, father of Thoosa, 1.85. 

phronius (fron'-i-us): father of Noemon, 2.426. 



PRONOUNCING GLOSSARY 



537 



phrontis (fron'-tis): son of Onetor, helmsman of Menelaus, 3.320. 

phthia (ftheye'-a): sector of southern Thessaly, kingdom of Peleus and home of 
Achilles, 11.564. 

phylace (fil' -a-see): home of Iphiclus in Thessaly, 11.331. 

phylacus (fil'-a-kus): hero of Phylace, 15.258. 

phylo (feye'-loh): handmaid of Helen, 4.140. 

pieria (pi-e'-ree-a): area north of Mount Olympus in Thessaly, 5.54. 

piraeus (peye-ree'-us): Ithacan, friend of Telemachus, host of Theoclymenus, 
15.602. 

pirithous (peye-ri' -tho-us): son of Zeus, king of the Lapiths, 21.331. See note 
ad loc. 

pisander (peye-san'-der): suitor, son of Polyctor, killed by Philoetius, 18.336. 

pisenor (peye-see'-nor): (\) father of Ops, 1.489. (2) Ithacan herald, 2.39. 

pisistratus (peye-si '-stra-tus): son of Nestor, who accompanies Telemachus to 
Sparta, 3.40. 

pleiades (pleye'-a-deez): constellation, 5.299. See note ad loc. 

plowman: constellation, 5.299. See note ad loc. 

poias (poi'-as): father of Philoctetes, 3.215 

polites (po-leye '-teez) : companion of Odysseus, 10.246. 

polybus (pol'-i-bus): (\) father of Eurymachus, 1.457. (2) A man of Egyptian 
Thebes, visited by Menelaus and Helen, 4.141. (3) Phaeacian craftsman, 8.417. 
(4) Suitor killed by Eumaeus, 22.255. 

polycaste (po-li-kas '-tee): youngest daughter of Nestor, 3.521. 

polyctor (po-lik'-tor): (\) builder of a well on Ithaca, 17.225. (2) Father of 
Pisander, 18.336. 

polydamna (po-li-dam'-na): wife of Thon, an Egyptian, 4.253. 

polydeuces (po-li-dyoo'-seez): brother of Helen and Castor (1), 11.343. See note 
ad loc. 

polyphemus (po-li-fee'-mus): Cyclops, son of Poseidon and Thoosa, blinded by 
Odysseus, 1.83. 

polyphides (po-li-feye'-deez): son of the prophet Mantius, and father of Theocly- 
menus, 15.278. 

polytherses (po-li-thur'-seez): father of Ctessipus, 22.301. 



538 



homer: THE ODYSSEY 



pontonous (pon-ton'-o-us): herald of Alcinous, 7.212. 

poseidon (po-seye'-don): god of the sea, son of Cronus and Rhea, younger 
brother of Zeus, father of Polyphemus, throughout the Odyssey an inveterate 
enemy of Odysseus, 1.23. 

pramnian wine (pram'-ni-an): dispensed by Circe, and a wine often used medi- 
cinally, 10.258. 

priam (preye'-am): king of Troy, son of Laomedon of